and sit a while with me
by mrs.trabi
Summary: AU/Realization can be a hard thing and when it hits Hereweald Hrothgar, then he's not too happy about it. Through an accident, he and his student, Jamie Novak, fall back to the year 29 A.C. to meet Jesus of Nazareth and His disciples – what will he, the dark and tough man from a different time learn from a man that knows him better than he knows himself? And what will the child ...
1. foreword - I was born

**Title:**

… and sit a while with me …

**Author:**

Mrs. Trabi

**Timeframe:**

1942 and 29 A.C.

**Summary:**

AU/Realization can be a hard thing and when it hits Hereweald Hrothgar, then he's not too happy about it. Through an accident, he and his student, Jamie Novak, fall back to the year 29 A.C. to meet Jesus of Nazareth and His disciples – what will he, the dark and tough man from a different time learn from a man that knows him better than he knows himself? And what will the child learn from a man his parents have always said won't care about him because he has no worth?

**Disclaimer: **

Well … I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words nor the persons, places, or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies … I'm just borrowing things from that book, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story … I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

**Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

**Author's Notes:**

Here, I'd like to say that this story isn't meant to discredit the Bible, God, His word, Jesus, or anything we believe in. God is and remains our first and most important priority – or at least that it is what should be. I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult.

I will be trying to handle the subject as delicately and as seriously as possible, I promise, and I do hope that not only I won't be flamed for this, but that also I'll find one or another of my readers who'll gain a new view and understanding … and that you'll like this one as much as you do my other stories, even though this concerns a different – and in my opinion much more important – book … thanks …

**Added author's notes:**

This first chapter, the foreword, might give away the impression that the story might be a biography – _it is not_. I have only written it so that you might know, not all of what happens in a book is fiction. There are things which are very much reality for some people and even though the story in the book might be playing at a different place and to a different time, for different persons – sometimes part of it might be real for some people anyway, never mind if it is the story of one particular person, if it is the story of a nation, or if it is the story of how God can work miracles in people.

**Warning:**

Story will contain references to child abuse.

Child abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me – I am …

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**…** **and sit a while with me …**

**Part one ****– **of teachers and pupils

**Chapter one ****– **Foreword ******– **I was born **…**  


**6****th**** of September, 2013 **

**Heiligenbronn, county of Rottweil, state of BW ****– Germany**

I was born in 1971, at the beginning of October, to be precise, even though I have to admit that I can't be any more precise than – well, it must have been sometime between the 5th and the 7th of October and apparently it had been rather adverse circumstances – and I don't know where exactly I was born either, someplace around or between Göppingen and Geislingen. But at least _one_ thing I can say for sure – namely that God seemed to already have a plan for me back then, because he'd had his hands not only above me but below me too – like he had a lot of times during my youth – or I wouldn't be here today to annoy you with my babbling.

Actually, it had already started while my mother was pregnant with my humble person.

She was a chain-smoker and she was an alcoholic – and I don't speak of two or three beers or glasses of wine each night and a daily jag but I'm speaking of real alcoholism – she was a real admiral on the red, and so I think, it's a small miracle that I'd survived this pregnancy of hers safely. After all – how many children are born with brain-damage, with a weak heart, or with weak lungs because of their mothers consuming nicotine and alcohol excessively?

Alright – sometimes I think that I – _"stayed behind"_ in my heart, for the lack of a better word – and if I'm honest with myself, then in my mind and ways of thinking too. But even though I've somehow remained a child, and even though I'm seeing many things from a childish viewpoint, seeing men generally not as men but as some kind of late father substitute, so I anyway think that I can say with sureness – I'm neither stupid nor mentally retarded and the one or other mental and physical problems and scars I've not obtained during this pregnancy of my mother's but some years later.

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Today I know that my fears – that I just as well could be disabled or even dead – aren't so far from reality actually.

I have four other siblings – two older sisters, one older brother and one younger brother. However, my mother had given birth to another boy, some time after my younger brother was born. I don't know under which circumstances this child had been born, nor do I know the circumstances under which he'd died – I don't even know how old he'd been, whatever. But I know that my oldest sister once told me a story about how it had been her duty to look after her younger siblings while my mother had been working at one or another job during the day to make money and while she had hung out in pubs during the night to waste the same money on drinks – even though my oldest sister had been a really small child back then herself. And seeing that the same story was told by not only her but my aunt too – and considering later years I have lived through while living in my mother's household, I can be relatively sure that it's a true story.

Apparently there hadn't been too much food back then, sometimes no food at all, and often my oldest sister had stirred water and flour to a strange glop so that her smaller siblings had at least _something_ to eat. One day, apparently, the pastor had stood in front of the door and had asked for my mother – I don't know why, because at that time she hadn't been a believer and had she been at home back then she would have most likely thrown any pan and pot she had in reachable distance after the pastor.

On the contrary – whenever I have mentioned God, Jesus, Heaven or anything else which I had heard from either my grandmother once or at school, then it came along with trouble I got into with my mother and comments like "there's no such a thing as God and you better shut your mouth about it, I won't have any of that nonsense here in my house!"

However, this pastor had given my sister a bar of chocolate – and my sister had been very happy. Not because it was _"sweets"_, but because it was _anything_ to eat at all and she had fed her younger siblings with it. She's to this day saying that she's never ever again got a beating like that from her mother – not because she'd given the chocolate to her younger siblings, but because she'd taken the chocolate from the pastor in the first place.

My oldest sister surely would know more about this brother who'd died – and why – but she won't tell anything and so I could only speculate, which I shouldn't do, I know, but it's hard not to. I just know that there'd been a child, and he had to be but a few months when he'd died – and considering the circumstances in which my mother had – _"kept"_ – her children, and nothing else it had been, and seeing that her other children – I've been away back then already – had been taken away from her around that time, I think it's not hard to imagine how he'd died – especially as no one is telling anything about it.

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However, I don't know the exact circumstances under which _I_ was born – except that my mother apparently was dead drunk and one day she stood – just sober enough to being able to think somewhat clearly as it seems or she wouldn't have done the only good thing she'd done in my life – in front of my grandmother's house and pushed a small bundle into her arms with the words – "you look after it" – and well, gone she was again.

Back in the house – and the bundle being unpacked – oh damn, there's a child in it!

My aunt, who is 12 years younger than my mother, had been living with my grandmother still – and she had searched for some old doll-clothes from a box in the attic – so I've gotten my first clothing ever, from a doll.

I got something to drink and then my grandmother took me to her family doc. Apparently I'd been born too early and apparently I'd been very small – what surely hadn't made it easier for the doc to determine an exact time of birth – but seeing that I'm not tall now either, or still, well – *shruggingshoulders*. However, other than that, I was healthy according to the doc, and apparently he'd said: "that child has to be about two days old and therefore I'd reckon it was born on the 6th of October – more or less".

My grandmother had tried to get information from hospitals and surgeries around and between Göppingen and Geislingen, but none had any information about a mother and her newborn – well, normally people stayed in hospital following a birth, after all, and so – my mother apparently gave birth to me _someplace_ and to this day no one knows when and where exactly this had been.

So – my birth certificate bears the – 6th of October and Göppingen as date and place of birth, even though I would have preferred the 7th of October as I love the number seven.

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Aaaaalright – and then there I was, living with my grandmother, my aunt, and my uncle – living in a German-American family and environment.

Back then there had been a lot of Americans stationed in Göppingen and they'd started friendships with the German population, they'd started relationships with German women and therefore you can imagine that the "Göppinger population" has been a rather colourful and mixed bunch of people – American families or family members, friends, that wasn't something strange and no one had frowned upon it, it's been a normal thing.

Therefore I've been as fluent in American English as I was in German, and knew where to find the things in the PX as well as in the mom-and-pop-store down the street – I've had a family, I've had friends, and I've been living – and happily so. Until –

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Yes – until …

It was in the beginning of the summer holidays between grade two and three.

I don't really know how old I've been back then, I'd need to calculate it down and I've never been good in math – math is a horror for any linguist I swear, and I've been in a coma during each math lesson – but just in case someone wants to count it down, I haven't started school with 6 but with 7, nearly 8 years.

However, one day in the beginning of this particular summer holidays my mother came – with the words "I am your mother, and I'm taking you with me."

Back then there was no child protective service which would have slowly gotten the families back together until the children could be re-integrated into the families. And back then no one had cared about the family-intern problems either – back then it had been enough to child protective service that my mother had divorced her alcoholic husband, had partaken in a withdrawal treatment and had then married again, her new husband being a teacher even, and therefore neither my grandmother nor my aunt or uncle could do anything against it – and within but a few hours, clothes, a few toys and a few books had been packed in boxes and I were sitting in my mother's car, on the way from Göppingen to Stuttgart where she was living in a house together with her new husband – and my siblings.

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I remember that I'd been nervous, that I'd been scared and that I'd been taken away by a completely strange woman which I'd never before had seen, that I hadn't known where I would end up and that I hadn't known what would happen from then on – the only thing I had known was – I had lost my family and was on my way to an entirely new family.

I also remember that my grandmother had taken me to the side for saying good-bye and that she'd said – "you don't need to be scared, she's your mother and she'll love you, just tell her that you love her too and everything will be alright. I'll visit you as soon as I can." A few words and then I'd lost her.

I had followed the advice of my grandmother, during the journey already, which I back then had thought it was a trip around the world – and in the car I'd told my mother, an entirely stranger – "I love you" – which I shouldn't have done however. Maybe I'd hoped that she – she was my mother after all – would love me too, that she maybe would tell me that she would love me too if only I told her – what a childish and idiot thought it had been! It had only resulted in the very first trouble I got into with my mother.

I don't really remember what exactly she'd screamed at me, but I know that she'd said – "your grandmother has told you to say such a thing, that's just like her, putting her nose into other people's things!" Of course it had been my grandmother's advice, but only to help me feeling better and back then my mother's accusation of a woman I had loved just hurt. She'd also told me that I couldn't buy her love with a simple "I love you" and that I had to earn her love.

I think I've never earned her love, not in forty-one years.

But I know that this "I love you" had been the last "I love you" I've said to anyone for many, many years – for nearly a lifetime, to be exact.

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Well – and so there I was again, this time ripped from my family and thrown into a completely strange family, ripped from a family where very much strictness – but even more harmony and love had ruled and in which I'd been happy – and thrown into a family in which strictness had also ruled – but no harmony, only irascibility, in which no love but hate and anger had ruled, in which violence had been the first topic on the agenda.

I'd been the last of 5 children who came back to my mother. I don't know in what order my siblings came back to my mother, but my two older sisters as well as my older and my younger brother were already in Stuttgart in the house of my mother and stepfather when I arrived there – as the fifth wheel, in the truest sense of the word.

I remember that we'd been sitting at the kitchen table and our mother handed out kinder-eggs – yes, they existed back then already and for all of you who don't know what it is as they are uncommon in the States because it's toy and food in one which isn't allowed in the States, it's a chocolate egg and inside the egg is a yellow thingy with a small toy inside. However, she's had four – one for Elke, one for Gaby, one for Charley and one for Andy. And then there was an – "oh, Claudia is here, I'm so sorry, but there's none left for you."

It's been kinder-eggs, it's been chocolate bars, it's been yoghurt, it's been cookies, it's been candies, or it's been anything else – never mind what it was, it was always one less, for years, and my common answer was just – "never mind, I don't care, I don't like kinder-eggs anyway." – chocolate bars, yoghurt, candies, cookies … never mind what … I had learned to not like it because I wouldn't get it anyay …

Well – one, I'd soon learned that crying wouldn't help me – second, I'd learned that a scene only led to a beating – third, it wouldn't change anything anyway – and forth – yes, what a stupid thought, but, maybe – just maybe – my mother would love me if only I were patient enough, if only I were obedient enough, if only I were good enough, if only I were – well, if only I were … just what? I hadn't known it when I'd been a child, and I still don't know it to this day.

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What I also had learned very quickly was – if my mother said jump, then you better jumped. You didn't ask why. You didn't ask for the height either – but you jumped, and you'd better jump as high as possible. Figuratively only, of course, it's a saying here in Germany.

She'd taught me in this first summer holidays how to cook – and that had been one of my duties from then on – besides of doing the dishes, cleaning the floors and doing the laundry - not to mention cleaning the kitchen and the bathroom. And woe betide me had the food gotten burned or the garbage forgotten to be taken out.

I remember that she stood before me one time, asking me why I hadn't taken the garbage out – and each time I told her that I had just forgotten to take it out – then I'd gotten a slap in the face. What do you answer to such a question if you're not allowed to say that you have forgotten it? And if you know that it is just the beginning, that the afternoon could be very long and that it would only get worse? I'd stopped saying anything at one time. After all, I didn't want another slap in the face – instead I'd got a good beating for it because I'd refused to answer her.

My mother used to sit at the sofa with a very strange activity – she'd been reading Jerry Cotton, John Sinclair, and other such shlock, and while she'd been reading she'd marked each and every vocal in the thing with a pencil. I don't know why she'd done that, I think, no one knows why she'd done that, but this is what I remember when I think of her – sitting at the sofa, reading and making circles around all the vocals – but well, she had enough children for working and only one thing she'd done herself – namely handing out the beatings, and she'd been good at this.

She'd always started with her hands, had then gone over to taking the next best thing that was in reach – and she hadn't cared about what this thing could do or what injuries the thing could cause, I think, she'd been just too angry to think clearly in such moments – and she'd gone over to using her feet in the end when we were laying on the floor.

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Today, I know that my two sisters didn't have the best life in her household either – but back then I often had thought how unfair all of it had been. My mother had always had drawers where she put us in – again, only figuratively, of course. Gaby has always been the pretty one, the beauty. She didn't have to be intelligent and she'd been allowed to get bad marks. She'd been a pretty dolly-bird and a pretty dolly-bird didn't need to have anything in her head and therefore she'd gotten a lot of clothes and make-up, beauty articles. Today I know that Gaby had never wanted all this, that she would have liked it more if someone had cared about her dyslexia, if someone had helped her with learning and that her – playing the beauty, had only been so that no one knew how much she was crying in her heart.

Elke had always been the oldest and the intelligent one. She'd been to the high school and therefore it had been more important for her to care about her school than doing work in the house – today I know that she'd had her work outside in the garden – not to mention that, as a child she'd had work and responsibility enough for an entire life, and that as a youth she'd been burying herself in learning so that she didn't have to see our mother – and maybe so that she didn't have enough time to think, because today, years later, I know that she's suffering deep depression because she has too much time to think.

Charley has always been the charming one – not to mention a boy and of course a boy didn't have to do housework. He didn't even have to tidy his room. I have never understood why Charley had always been her beloved one, and neither do I understand why he's still her beloved one – but well, that's one of the things I'll never understand but I think it isn't my place to understand it. It's just like this, and it always has been – Charley had done one thing or another, and upon my mother starting to give him a lecture he had just smiled at her and the world was alright. Sometimes I think, maybe I haven't smiled enough at her? On the other hand – I would have been stupid had I not tried his tactic also, and I know that I'm not stupid, and so I'm sure that I did and that it just hadn't worked for me as it had for him.

After all, there are many things of my youth which I have – and successfully so – pushed away as far as possible, which I have buried as deeply as possible and I don't really dare to dig deeper than I absolutely have to, because I know that nothing good can lay down there, I'm not a coroner, and I need to examine neither bodies nor things.

Well, and then there was of course Andy. Andy has been the little one – and that was a very comfortable place – but not as comfortable a place as his older brother held. It's been strange, he's been the little one and a boy too – but anyway he'd had to help me with the dishes. I had to wash them and my little brother had to dry them. Dunno why he had this task, but well – for me it meant that it was one duty less and at least it was a few minutes more each day which I had left for other chores to finish before the evening. Today I know that he, most of all, had felt being left alone by his mother when she moved out – even though my mother had never cared about his nightmares and about his fears, not once, even though he'd been the little one.

And me –

Wait! Me?

It's been like always and there hasn't been a drawer left for me – I've simply been nothing. I haven't been smart, I haven't been pretty, I haven't been charming and I haven't been the little one. I haven't been the oldest either – I've been – just nothing. I didn't have a place and I didn't have a drawer, I didn't have a label. Maybe that's been a good thing though, because maybe that's the reason as to why I have never followed one crowd or another – I've always been alone, always followed my own direction and often even going against the tide, never mind what.

If I want to sit on a table – then I do it, if I want to wear black – then I do it, if I want to sit – and Indian style so – on the counter in _'the other shop'_ where I am working two times a week, then I just do it. If I have to say something to someone, then I do it, without sugar-coating it and I won't ever lie to anyone just to spare this one's feeling. I don't care about what people think of me, about what people say about me behind my back, because I have nothing to lose. Alright, I'm sure that I'd be very unhappy would they call me nice or something similar, because _I am not_ nice, but except of that, I don't care.

I've always remained me – dark, tough and cold, unmoved by anything the world threw at my feet. Or at least that was the picture that I've presented the world with – and sometimes, often, still do. But what I want to say with this is simply – I am me, and I do not change for the sake of the people around me. I have learned to keep true to myself, and people either take me the way I am or they leave it, but I won't play a role just to fit into one drawer or another.

Just one example – for my baptism people said "you need to wear white, that's important, it's a symbol for your sins being washed away". Right. I do agree on the symbolic of it. But I have thought over it for weeks, and weeks, and weeks, and I have been worried about it. Because I don't like white, white is the worst – _colour_ – existent, it isn't a colour even! How can people wear plain white? You know what I did? In the end I've been wearing my jeans, my trainers and my usual black t-shirt. Because had I worn anything else, then it wouldn't have been me, then I would have worn a mask, I would have played a role and that would have been the wrong thing – to give myself over to God with playing a role.

A good thing indeed then, that there hadn't been a drawer left in my mother's cupboard.

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My love for the English language – even though it might not be perfect and even though I may annoy people with it …

Well, I don't really know what had been – or still is – my mother's problem and I don't think that I have the right to speculate. But fact is – my mother hates my aunt and my uncle so very much, she would be ready to do nearly everything to hurt them or anyone else who'd been loved by them. Maybe because she'd had to share my grandmother's love when my aunt was born twelve years after her, maybe because my aunt had been happy in her marriage later while my mother hadn't been happy in her own first marriage, maybe because my uncle is an American and not German, I don't know. But unfortunately I'd been one of those who'd been loved by my aunt and uncle, and so the first thing she'd done after she'd taken me to her home was – she forbade any kind of English language, readings, contacts, whatever. If it was red/white/blue then it was bad, if it had stars and stripes – then it was bad – if it sounded English or she couldn't understand it – then it was bad. If it was Hamburger or Hot Dogs – then it was bad. You could continue the list endlessly, she always found enough things to blame me for/with, just because it was one way or another English, American, or had to do with my aunt and uncle.

It wasn't that I couldn't speak German, I could, but seeing that English is a language easier to learn and speak than is German, well, it was easier to me too. Anyway, I don't think that I would have had a problem with speaking German, which was necessary anyway as my mother didn't understand the English language to begin with – but the fact that she'd forbidden it entirely, it hurt me, and it scared me. For me it was as if she had taken a part of my person away, as if she had eliminated part of my past – one part of many others which she'd eliminated.

Well, it hadn't gotten any easier when I visited fifth grade and brought home better marks in English than in German and I'm sure that my mother would have taken me out of the English lessons had they not been required subjects back then already. Today I think that a good portion of the beatings I had gotten over the years had just been because there had been one or another English word or even comment which had just slipped my tongue accidentally.

I think, at one point or another I'd started to think English instead of German, even though I'm sure that back then it must have been really chaotically because – if you don't practice a language actively, then you'll forget a lot of it over time and maybe that's the reason as to why now, years later, my English is a strange mixture of British English, American English, slang, and Middle English – not to be mistaken with Old English. But well, it's been the only thing which she couldn't take away. She'd been able to take away the clothes I'd gotten from my grandmother and from my aunt and to replace them with new ones, and she'd been able to take away the few toys and books and to replace them with new ones, and she even could forbid me to see my family, she could destroy pictures of me with my family which my grandmother had packed too – in other words, she could take away all my past, all that had to do with my real family, but she couldn't take away my thoughts.

And therefore – well, that's the reason as to why I love the English language so very much – because it's the only thing left, the only thing that is left from my past, from my childhood, from my family, whatever, because there's nothing else …

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Of course my grandmother and my aunt had over and over tried to visit me – Göppingen and Stuttgart weren't – and still isn't – too far away from each other after all, forty-five minutes with the train only, and later when we'd moved to Bochingen then my aunt even came to visit the Black Forest in the attempt to visit me or to at least see me.

I don't know why my mother always had forbidden any contact, had forbidden my aunt and grandmother to see me, not once in all those years, but I only can guess that she'd not only feared my aunt – or my grandmother – could find any marks from beatings but that she also wanted to hurt my aunt too. However, she'd always locked me away in the cellar when my aunt or my grandmother was to visit. I don't know what she'd told them – my aunt has never told me about that and I don't dare to ask and to dig any deeper in my past than I already have, but I know that I'd often been in the cellar, most likely even more often than there having been visits from my aunt or grandmother, and most likely just because my mother _could_ lock me up there. There had been a lot of things she'd done, just because she _could_.

I remember that one day I'd been crying in the car because of it. My mother had told me to help her with shopping – never a pleasant experience, believe me, and while other kids loved it, to go shopping with their parents, we always feared it. However, we'd been driving from Bochingen to Oberndorf and I think I must have known that my aunt had been visiting shortly before and so I'd been crying because of it – and my mother had said "you stop this crying right now or I'll throw you out of the moving car."

Of course it had been a ridiculous statement, today I know this. It wouldn't have been even possible because she would have had to stop the car anyway to open the passenger door – but as a child I hadn't thought along this line and as a child such nonsense statements were just horror. The threat that she'd keep me locked up in the cellar forever – ridiculous, because in Germany school attendance is required by law and so she couldn't have locked me away forever. But again, as a child I hadn't thought along this line while at the same time I knew very well what she was capable of.

She'd had a whip hanging on the wall in the dining room – for decoration – but over the years it didn't remain a decoration and neither a threat of hers to use the thing but she'd actually done it. The threat that she'd beat the hell out of us if we told people private things – one time I'd passed out at school because I'd been too tired and because I'd had to little food, I guess, and the school called for an ambulance, of course they did, and I've ended up in hospital – it's been one of the worst beatings I ever got afterwards because my mother said I'd done that deliberately just to give her a bad reputation.

Not that it had been the first time that I'd had the opportunity to look at the floor from a closer point of view, it happened from time to time, especially during work at home when I didn't have the chance to walk a few steps or to move otherwise but had to stand in one place for hours. Whatever, I think, I'd quickly learned that a threat of hers could come true sooner than we liked.

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I think, I'd soon changed and I'd learned to avoid my mother as best as possible – or to keep silent in her presence. At one time or another I seem to have thrown this person together with all other persons in one large pot, have stirred and the outcome was a very peaceful and calm school-time, very silent and human-avoiding too.

My place had been the backmost table by the wall with the windows – for years and I've never ever accepted any other student at this particular table.

One time, at the beginning of a new school year, dunno when exactly it had been, there had been a new girl in the class and she'd actually come towards me and then sat down at the table beside me – and without asking even! Even though everyone knew to better keep away from my desk! I'd been so shocked – and so angry about it, knowing that I wouldn't be able to bear it having anyone so close, I'd just stared at her. I hadn't said anything, why should I have done – staring at people angrily was enough and really, just a few minutes later she'd taken her schoolbag and had left my table to sit at the other side of the classroom – well, I'd been satisfied and she'd never ever again dared to come close or even talk to me, and so I had again ensured my freedom and my reputation.

I've never had friends – because I've never wanted friends. I think, I could have had some, I remember that there had been one or another who tried to approach me once in a while, maybe because I'd been a miracle to them with my stillness and my seriousness, maybe because I've been really good in swearing and cursing in English at other times and they thought it was _"cool"_ … I don't know, but I've always driven them off right away, never accepting any other people in my life, neither students nor teachers and I think they'd gotten used to it with time. I think, sometime from grade seven on I even could have been sleeping back there in the last row, laying with my arms and head all over the table, visibly and openly sleeping – and no one would have cared about it. And again I've been satisfied with it, because that meant – I had my peace. No idiot students who annoyed me with their presence, no idiot teachers who annoyed me with their stupid questions – I think, I did love school very much, because that was the only place where I had peace, where I didn't need to be scared, where I didn't got beaten and where I didn't got screamed at – not to mention where I could rest, physically as well as mentally.

And at the same time my teachers knew very well that – sleeping or not – I got good marks, or at least halfway good marks, anyway. One time my older sister had to learn "John Maynard" and for learning it by heart she asked me to help her and in the process of listening to her reciting the poem, I'd learned it too. Grade seven or eight it was our part to learn the poem by heart and the moment our teacher presented us with the news there could be heard a small whisper coming from the back of the classroom, a whisper that said: _"John Maynard, who is John Maynard? John Maynard was our helmsman true. To solid land he carried us through. He saved our lives, our noble king. He died for us; his praise we sing. John Maynard. From Detroit to Buffalo, as mist sprays her bow like flakes of snow, over Lake Erie the "Swallow" takes flight and every heart is joyful and light. In the dusk, the passengers all can already make out the dim landfall, and approaching John Maynard, their hearts free of care, they ask of their helmsman, are we almost there? He looks around and toward the shore: still 30 minutes ... a half hour more __..._"

The only teacher who'd tried to change things had been my class teacher from eighth and ninth grade – and I think he was even close to managing. I remember that we had to do a presentation and I had the subject Japan. I'd written the presentation, I'd drawn maps of Japan and then I'd handed it in to my teacher before the break – the conversation that had followed had been, kind of funny, or it would have been kind of funny had it not been one of the rare occasions where I had talked at all.

**Teacher:** "There's no need to hand it in right now, you'll need to present it during the next lesson."

**Me:** *shruggingshoulders* "nope."

**Teacher:** "A presentation needs to be presented, that's why it is a presentation."

**Me:** *liftingeyebrow* "nope."

**Teacher:** "Now, you keep this and present it next lesson."

**Me:** *scowling* "nope."

**Teacher:** "You must."

**Me:** *scowlingevenmore* "nope."

**Teacher:** "If you don't present it, then this will be a failure."

**Me:** *shruggingshoulders* "so what?"

**Teacher:** *gettingangryabit* "You'll present it, period!"

**Me:** *evenmoreangry* "You call me up there – and I'll pack my things and leave. I won't present the thing, you can turn upside down to perform a headstand and waggle your feet, I don't care."

Well, of course I'd been the very first one after the break whom our class teacher called up to the front for the presentation – I should have known. I've looked at him for a moment, packed my things, and then I've left the classroom without a word.

I'd gone to the park and there I smoked a cigarette – yes, I'd been smoking already back then in eighth grade – but the strange thing? It was 45 minutes later when the lesson had ended. I was still sitting at the park because going home early? Despite everything I wasn't suicidal after all. Well, and then my class teacher had appeared, sat down beside me and lit a cigarette himself. He was the very first person I allowed to sit down beside me and he was the very first person I talked to after years of – not muteness, but talking as little as possible. And I think – maybe he could have done something, most likely he'd even been ready to bring in child protective service – and maybe I would have been ready to accept it, and to tell him – or them – more than I'd told him during these thirty minutes while I was waiting for the bus – just to be able to leave my "family".

But then everything changed and I couldn't afford such a thing anymore.

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Today I don't really remember if it was at the end of eighth grade or at the beginning of ninth grade, I've pushed many things away for years and it's not easy to get everything in an order now without digging more than I need to, because sometimes I think there are things I don't need to know, and I don't wish to know either.

However, my mother moved out. She'd been meeting someone for months already, she'd started to work in his embroidery and for a few months we'd even had one of those 12-headed embroidery machines in our garage. But well, of course not our mother had done home work, but we – added to our regular duties of course.

I remember that she'd promised us 10 pennies for each finished towel – that would have been an hourly wage of about 60 pennies and we've been very happy about it because so far we'd never gotten anything for the work we'd done. I should have, however, known that it was wishful thinking only, because of course we hadn't seen just one penny of it and somehow I think – I hadn't really counted on it either. But for a moment it had been a good thought anyway, especially in retrospect.

Never mind – my mother and this guy had come closer and they'd started a relationship, my mother moved out and into a flat together with him – and fortunately they had started their own embroidery so that the guy could leave the old one to his wife – fortunately because therefore they had needed the embroidery machine from our garage and so the added work went bye bye – I was so unhappy about it! … *huff* … not really, on the contrary …

Whatever, I'd stayed at home together with my little brother, my stepfather, and the mother of my stepfather. Both of my older sisters were already married and had left the house long ago and my older brother had started a carrier at the federal armed forces.

I was happy about it, that my mother had moved out, even though it had gotten rather difficult then. But she was gone, she was gone and she couldn't scream at me anymore, she couldn't tell me how worthless I was anymore and she couldn't beat me anymore. I had finally found some peace.

The problem?

Well, she'd come once a week – not that she would have entered the house – and not that I would have been unhappy about it that she hadn't entered the house – no. the problem was, she'd brought one basket with food each week which she put into the downstairs corridor – and this basket with food needed to last for a week – for my little brother, for my stepfather who suffered from Diabetes and was sitting in a wheelchair with only one leg left, in the small granny-flat downstairs, and for the mother of my stepfather, a diabetic too and _she_ didn't even manage leaving her bed anymore – if she really couldn't or wouldn't, I don't know, but really? I can understand if she just hadn't wanted to leave her bed anymore. I've often been at this point too, after all.

Well – so there wasn't much room when it came to food and honestly, it's been a mission impossible to divide portions so that at the end of the week there would be any food left – not to mention so that it would last until then even and often I went to bed or school without a meal as I knew – as a diabetic my stepfather and my step-grandmother needed food first, and three times a day even, and I also knew that my little brother needed a meal before _I_ did – all in all I think we have just existed, not really lived in that house – because there hadn't been anything left to live there. Food, heating, power – name it, and we didn't have it.

Our mother soon had stopped paying any bills and my stepfather – he had sat in his wheelchair all day long, down there in his granny flat, and he had been too ill and too dependent on his beer bottle to really manage anything at all and if I have to be honest – he'd never managed anything from the beginning on. It had always been my mother who had paid the bills and who'd gone shopping – with his money, but she'd done it. I think, he hadn't left the house for years already, when my mother had moved out and I had to care for him in the end too.

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Not that I would have hated him, and surely not that I would have feared him the way I have feared my mother, on the contrary. Today I have a lot of respect for this man. He'd married a woman who'd just made a withdrawal treatment, who had five children scattered all over the place in BW, and he not only had encouraged her to get her children back but he'd also bought her a house so that this woman and her children had a roof over their heads. Not to mention that he'd fed her and her children, children which weren't his. He'd never beaten us, not once, and he'd never screamed at us either. Maybe he'd thought that – with their mother they're in enough trouble as it is, there's no need to get them into more trouble even.

On the other hand – he'd never done anything against it either. And back then, when I was a child, I guess I'd blamed him for it, because he hadn't cared, at least in my heart, because never would I have accused him openly, but in my heart I have blamed him.

And he was a strange man.

I think, if I have shared ten sentences with him during all those years I have lived with my mother and him – then it's been a lot. Alright, that was exaggerated – but it's surely never been more than a hundred sentences during all those years! However, it hadn't only been because of me, but because of him too, because my siblings hadn't had much more contact with him either. Maybe it hadn't been as extremely little contact as it had been with me, seeing that I'd had no contact with anyone, but it had been similar. I think, Elke, the oldest of us, she'd had the deepest relationship with him and even that was – more than just reserved.

One of the clearest memories I have of him is, that one day my homework had been to draw a map in my geography exercise book and my mother hadn't been at home – and so I'd shown him the exercise book with my homework – the first time that I'd shown my homework to him instead of my mother who'd normally demanded to see them. Sometimes I think that she'd done so, just to make sure that she had another reason to beat us and surely not because it was important to her that we'd done our homework. I don't know what I'd been more scared of – showing her my homework, because she always found something she didn't like, or being late in showing her, which she didn't like either – what often resulted in me standing in front of the living-room door, with my exercise book in my hands and rooted to the spot, knowing that I should hurry up with going in there but being unable to actually move and to really enter the living-room, trying to delay the upcoming trouble for just a second, and then for another second, and then for just one second more …

However, back then, this one time, my stepfather had taken the exercise book, had looked at the map and he'd really been interested – he'd then started to skim through the pages, to look at older works and in the end I think he'd been really happy – and me too, because he'd said that he wished all his students had done such a good work than this one had been, and because it was the first time (and sadly the last time too) that I'd gotten any praise from one of my parents. I've never forgotten that one moment and whenever I think of my step-father, then I remember this particular incident.

Today I think that he was just as scared of my mother as we were, even though she's never beaten him. I think, she just could hurt him with her words as much as she hurt us – and today I'd wish to see him one more time and to tell him how much respect I have for him, and to thank him for what he'd done for us.

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I was 17 when I realized that, after two years of caring for my stepfather, his mother and my younger brother, while having none to nothing of anything, I had reached the end of my rope, mentally as well as physically.

During ninth grade, during my exams, and during the first year of junior high school I'd fought to somehow feed the remainder of my "family" with one basket of food per week – in vain. Two years during which I myself didn't have much food and I don't know how I would have survived had I not had the subject "cooking" at school – because when I think back at that time, today, then I think that these had sometimes been the only times I've had a meal myself and after two years I've been ready to simply disregard the responsibility I had towards my family, because I haven't been able to carry out that responsibility any longer. Maybe I was too tired, maybe too hungry, maybe I just hadn't cared anymore, I don't know which – maybe all of it.

In the end I contacted my oldest sister and then moved out of the house and have left my family behind.

Not that it had been too much better _then_. My school? Forget it, because I needed to work so that I had money to pay the rent for the room I lived in and to buy food – but at least I _had_ food.

The problem was that at this time I was so deep down the road of an eating disorder – and a sleeping disorder – that the food I had at home didn't really help. Not that I've suffered from anorexia or bulimia – surely not. I've just always forgotten to eat because I wasn't used to regular meals and most likely I was far beyond the point where I really felt hunger. A problem I'm still suffering from, I have to admit, even though it's getting better. I'm able to forget any meals completely, while at the same time a lot of food is wasted as I'm buying – and cooking – too much. But somehow I still fear that there could be not enough food at home, that anyone in my house could be hungry, and therefore – well, I'm buying too much, therefore I'm cooking too much. I wouldn't care about me being hungry, I wouldn't really notice it anyway and I can forget eating, for days even – until my husband gets angry and reminds me of it when I'm feeling ill because of it. He always says that I don't need to be surprised if I feel ill or if I have stomach aches. But I'm always scared that my children could go to bed hungry the way we have.

It's gotten better with the years, seeing that I'm 41 now – at least I think I'm 41 – but still it's an eating disorder, added to a sleeping disorder, an attention deficit disorder, a speaking disorder and a social phobia – damn, can't I just go to a junkyard and get rid of a few things? I'd really like to give a few things away, and I don't even want to have anything for it, they could have it for free.

But joke aside – I have a different life-story than my oldest sister has, but anyway I can say that just like her, I had enough pain, work and responsibility for a lifetime and I'm not surprised that I am the way I am, even though it's getting better the more time passes.

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During the years after I have left home, I think I have deepened my misanthropy even and I didn't leave the house if I didn't really have to – except for work and except to buy one thing or another – for me people had become the worst creatures on this earth – the only animals which could destroy themselves, gruesome animals which are deadhearted and able to do the most horrible things imaginable towards each other. And so I've started avoiding people even more than I've done in my youth, except for one friend I've had for years – until I've met my husband.

Of course there hadn't been too many changes in the beginning.

I've left the house a bit more – if my husband, who hadn't been my husband back then – was with me. I've started to speak to others – if he was with me. And I've gone to one pub or another – if he was with me. Except of that – there weren't too many changes in the beginning. We've married, but I've always stayed at home with the children – and happily so. And surely not just out of the feeling for responsibility towards my children but rather because – why should I have gone out there and handle annoying, stupid, and depraved people? And why should I do this to other people, having to handle me? It's been better this way, because this way I wasn't annoyed at the people out there, and the people out there weren't annoyed at me either.

However, why my husband had married me – and had then stayed with me despite all my failures and despite all my inadequacies, I don't know – but I think it's like it's written in the bible – one man, one woman, one lifetime. A man will leave his parents to take a woman and they will become one – a unity, and that's what we became with time, a unity, in good times and in bad times, and we've proven it because – bad times have been very present for many, many years – until, let me say, three or four years ago.

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And I don't speak of – "not so good times" – but of really bad times.

"I love you" – had been a sentences I'd said to my mother many years ago when she'd taken me from my family – and it's been one of the last sentences I've said at all without being requested to speak while I've often had times when I've just ignored such requests – it depended on the person who requested speech – whatever reason for should I have said anything after all? Whatever reason for should I have explained anything? Or asked anything? The only request I've never ignored had been the request of my mother, because one didn't ignore any request she made, never mind what kind of request it was. But except for that? I've soon become in the truest sense of the word – still.

Maybe that's been the reason as to why I wasn't shocked when one day I wasn't able to speak anymore at all, even though it lasted for months.

I think – any other man would have said – "alright, now you've lost it and you can go and jump in the lake but I won't have it anymore". I think, Elsa with her view of men – _'if you know one, then you know all'_ – could learn something from my husband if she weren't a fictive person.

And I don't speak of Elsa Harvest, the elderly lady I've come up with for WCPS in my other stories – I'm speaking of Elsa Nock whom I've invented for the mini-story for our community, a 29 year old lady who's managing a small print shop, .oO( I just say "google the shit", one of her favourite sentences ), and those who know this mini-story – even though I think that barely anyone of those people will read this here – will know whom I'm speaking of.

However, I myself hadn't thought too much about it when from one moment to the other I haven't been able to speak anymore – just another failure, nothing new here. But my husband never left me, never mind all the months of written conversation from my part, and never mind how often this happened afterwards, the longest relapse being one and a half years of mutism without a break.

But well – that isn't so important.

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Important is – as strange as it is, but I seem to be important to God or he wouldn't put up with all the work he has to do with me, all the times during which he's protectively holding his hands over me and all the years during which he's had his hands below me to carry me. He really has to be very patient with me – and all of that just because he has a plan for me?

I don't know if I'll really be able to live up to the expectations God has set in me … but he's been doing miracles during the past let me say two or three years – or I wouldn't have been able to write this, looking back at all the things without screaming bloody murder and wishing to kill someone, preferably my mother. I have grown during the past two or three years, not in height, but in my heart, I think, in my mind – whatever, I don't really know.

But most strangely – I have even started to love people.

And such a statement coming from my person!

I, the dark and cold misanthrope, the one person who hated human being enough to turn my back on them forever, the one person who could stand up to a guy who'd just broken my wrist, looking up at him with a disdainful smile and with the question if this was all he could do, getting the same wrist broken a bit more for it before again standing up to him and asking him the same question, not even hating him anymore but only feeling disdain over him because he was human. I think I could have felt more respect towards a rat or a snake, even a spider than towards that guy – and not even because he'd broken my wrist, such a thing hadn't been the first time after all and it wasn't the first scar either. Someone who'd lived with my mother didn't get out of it without scars. No – but just because he was a human being.

And to say now that I have started to love people? People I don't know even – just because they are people?

That is as if Hereweald Hrothgar – or Severus Snape – gave away a declaration about how to love the world – they would both end up in a closed ward right away. And a year ago it would have been simply impossible for me to say such a thing – I'm sure that a lot of people who knew me up to now would happily call 911 if they knew, without blinking an eye even and send me to a mental ward, preferably a closed ward. Because people knew that – I don't love _anyone_. Not ever.

But well – I also think that God had given me a place, and the place even seems to fit, seeing that I like to draw and to write. But again – will I be able to live up to the expectations people around me will set in me? Will I be able to live up to the expectations this team will set in me? Won't I disappoint them? Will I be able to live up to the responsibility my place will clearly bring, too? I don't know it and I can only hope and trust in the people around me to have patience with me – something that doesn't sit too well with me, trusting people.

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And concerning the logic of the place I've found myself in – I've forgotten to tell you about my love for writing – well …

Maybe I should first apologize for the chaos that will make appearance in the following chapters before I start explaining anything, just so to set you at ease – and that the upcoming chapters will be chaotic – well, no one, and lest of all me, can deny that.

Let me just say – would any of my prior German- or English teachers get this here between their fingers, then they would most likely – alright, they would _surely_ lay it aside with a shocked expression on their faces upon just reading the name of the author. It would awaken memories in form of horror-visions, because those poor people – and all of them – had been regularly driven to despair – due to anecdotes as they were wandering from the subjects as well as due to essays as they'd been too detailed and comments like "too detailed" … "too comprehensive" … "too circuitous" … "too explanative" … "too nested" … "too complicated" … and even "too loquacious" – even though I doubt _that_ – well, with time they didn't have to come up with such comments anymore, no – they just needed to copy them from the past works of mine.

One teacher of mine once even said – you could describe a leaf floating down from a tree, carried by the wind in autumn – and for this one scene you'd need at least four or five pages in your tiny handwriting in your exercise book. I'm still not sure if it was a compliment or an insult.

On the other hand – I've never been able to avoid just this – what however wasn't because of lack of attempts but rather because there's a really strange formula which – and I'm sure of that – even the best scientist wouldn't be able to explain –

Namely: me plus pencil equal chaos.

And well – seeing that I've been the worst case in math, the teachers of _this_ particular science having gotten as desperate upon my questions as to – "but _why_ is two plus three equal to five" as my German and English teachers had gotten upon my essays – so, well, I've never been able to alter this formula myself either, not to mention getting to an – for my teachers – adequate outcome.

The reason for that was simple – whenever there was an essay or similar to be written, actually anything that had to do with words, then I didn't have any influence over my pencil anymore which – apparently – always found its own way across the papers, and so the outcome of an essay was generally inevitable – it was at least six, seven or eight pages, most of the time even more, in a handwriting that was – well – small. I was entirely innocent of it, it hadn't been my fault.

Anyway, even after school, writing one thing or another has kept up with me, has even followed me upon each step I took, whatever the reason.

Some years there had just been a few short and nonsense stories the result of my writing which I would delete from my laptop with the same expression of horror on my face which would be found on the faces of my teachers would they get these upcoming chapters between their fingers – nope, I'd delete it without thinking of it even once, let alone twice and without blinking an eye even.

And so I've stopped writing at all – there was no reason in producing trash after all and nothing else it had been and so some time passed – alright – just a few weeks passed, maybe a few months but surely not more because …

Well, yes – because then there was Hereweald Hrothgar who stumbled over my path someplace deep down in the labyrinth of my brain – and he's reminded me so very much of myself that I wasn't able to forget him ever again. And when shortly after Hereweald even met Herbaceous VanHarkins – well, then I didn't have another choice other than – no, of course not to take the pencil from the place whence I'd banned it, but to start my laptop. Not really to write a book, but rather – to write anything at all. After all it's been weeks since I'd last written anything, and for me that was – like years.

And so I've sat there – not at a table in a classroom this time but at home in front of my laptop – but how should it be otherwise? I had to deal with the same problem again. Not my pencil had his own will this time, but my fingers, just as if they'd ignore the impulses my brain was trying to send over to them with a devilish grin and they hastened across the keyboard, quicker than their muscles could react – in other words, I didn't stumble over my tongue but over my fingers.

However, what came out of it was – chaos, again!

But this time it wasn't too bad a thing because – Hereweald had been a messy guy himself and so the thing fit well. Just how I could integrate Herbaceous into this mess – I really didn't know this. But again my fingers had taken this decision from me by themselves and when I've read over the thing one evening, about what I had written for the past few nights – well, what am I to say? I've been more frustrated than ever, I've been close to tears even with desperation and short of deleting the entire rubbish.

Because Hereweald and Herbaceous living together in the same house? Never! That would be something like – as if you'd drive with a container filled with high explosive nitro-glycerine over a bumpy and jolty crushed stone road – it just couldn't work! Fortunately however I wasn't able to do it (deleting the rubbish I mean, not the drive across the bumpy road with the nitro-glycerine) and I've rather racked my brains over it once more, for days and days.

And really, I've been able to – against all logic – not only befriend the thought but to even get new ideas out of it – because imagining what chaos had to come out of it if you threw the most normal, sober, and logical person existent on this planet called Earth together with the definitely most chaotic, messy, and impulsive person – well, as my husband one day said: It couldn't be worse than it is with the two of us – and he'd been not only serious about it, but he'd been correct too.

However, the two – Hereweald and Herbaceous of course – grew in mind and character and with the months the two of them had started a life of their own and somehow I've lost any influence on them. They just didn't care anymore about what I – the author – wanted them doing, but they just did what they wanted, imagine! Can you understand how much their constant bickering and picking at each other got on my nerves with time? Not to mention Hereweald's constant sarcasm towards Herbaceous and Herbaceous always being so damn calm about it what drove Hereweald nuts at the same time!

But well, as someone who loved fantasy novels or movies, it was about two years later that I stumbled over Harry Potter – and with it of course Fanfiction – and then started writing there. Hereweald and Herbaceous got in the background of my writing – alright, actually I've put them in a file of my laptop so that I could concentrate on Snape and Potter which allowed me so much room to play. And seeing that I had already learned how to throw the most different people into the least likely situations – I think I've been good in my new job as an internet-author on Fanfiction – at least my readers have never complained much. One thing here or there if they were unhappy with one direction or another I had approached – but generally I got good reviews, and a lot of reviews – and I've been happy with throwing Snape and Potter together into the most difficult and complicated situations where they had to – grow.

It was kind of a special challenge, taking two already existent characters and to then change them without changing their basic nature, without changing who they are – while changing them so that they could form a family. You can come up with a new character, but working with given specifications – it's a real challenge and any other author on Fanfiction will surely agree with me on that.

However, with the time Hereweald forced his way back into my writing again and became a friend of Severus Snape, and seeing that my readers seemed to like him too, he'd accompanied several of my stories over the years on Fanfiction, together with Herbaceous VanHarkins even – until – yes, again until there was something that didn't leave my mind anymore after a daring from Catlady, one of my most loyal readers and reviewers.

Her words have been something like: evil, you really need to stop tormenting people one of these days and I dare you to write something sweet and fluffy … it's been something along these lines and she'd even offered a cup of black coffee afterwards – virtual coffee, of course, seeing that she's sitting in the States and I'm sitting in Germany – to get the bad taste of the sweetness and fluffiness out of my mouth, how very nice of her … :D …

But well, the stone was laid and – well, and I wondered – what about Hereweald?

Not as a minor character as in my Harry Potter stories but as a main character again?

Not that I wanted to write another completely new book with Hereweald and Herbaceous – surely not. Fanfiction had become my home – and so on Fanfiction I will remain – what means, I do need – or rather did need – an already existing book to write about.

But – what about changing books from Harry Potter to the Bible?

A rather audacious thing to do was my first thought, but then?

I've always done the daring things when it came to my writing. And I've always lived up to the responsibility any author has towards his readers. I've never sugar-coated child abuse, never mind if my readers were happy about it or not, I've never sugar-coated anything at all and if I needed to have a character dying, then I've done just that, even though it's been a character my readers have loved – which is the reason as to why none of my stories should be read by children or teens below the age of sixteen – and I've always thrown people together or them in a situation where my readers at first thought – strange, why would she do such a thing? That won't work, not ever!

But in the end it always worked out.

Some people say they don't know which of my main characters they pity the most, but that's what makes it as interesting as it seems to be – and so I have made my mind up and I have started writing a new story, with a new storyline, with a new plot and with a new background – without wizards, without magic, and the only things that remain are Hereweald Hrothgar, Herbaceous VanHarkins whom I have re-named into Hendrik VanHarkins even, and the fact that Hereweald is a teacher and will be thrown together with a student he doesn't like in a situation that will be – once again – least likely.

But even though it's a new story and a new book – I fear that, again, it lacks the sweetness and again it lacks the fluff – in other words, I fear, I have lost the dare, my dear Catlady … but the idea has me hooked and so it's even become my first priority – very much to the regret of the readers of my other stories as they will get a chapter every fortnight only instead of every Friday like before … it's just that apparently I am unable writing sweet fluff because I have learned that – life isn't sweet and life isn't fluffy either … and I would lie to not only you, but myself either would I disregard these lessons …

And I am no one to lie to anyone, never mind the truth …

Thank you …

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**To be continued**

**Next time in ****… and sit a while with me …**

_The first chapter: there will be a war, a teacher, a boarding school and some thoughts_

**Added author's note**

thank you for reading – and yes, I would appreciate it if you won't throw this aside from the beginning on, seeing that you won't be used to such a writing style coming from my person as I've never ever written a foreword to anything here on Fanfiction – the next chapter will already contain the beginning of the story, don't worry and thank you …


	2. prologue - the calm before the storm

**Title:**

… and sit a while with me …

**Author:**

Mrs. Trabi

**Timeframe:**

1942 and 29 A.C.

**Summary:**

AU/Realization can be a hard thing and when it hits Hereweald Hrothgar, he's not too happy about it. Through an accident, he and his student, Jamie Novak, fall back to the year 29 A.C. to meet Jesus of Nazareth and His disciples – what will he, the dark and tough man from a different time learn from a man that knows him better than he knows himself? And what will the child learn from a man his parents have always said won't care about him because he has no worth?

**Disclaimer: **

Well … I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words nor the persons, places, or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies … I'm just borrowing things from that book, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story … I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

**Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

**Author's Notes:**

Here, I'd like to say that this story isn't meant to discredit the Bible, God, His word, Jesus, or anything we believe in. God is and remains our first and most important priority – or at least that it is what should be. I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult.

I will be trying to handle the subject as delicately and as seriously as possible, I promise, and I do hope that not only I won't be flamed for this, but that also I'll find one or another of my readers who'll gain a new view and understanding … and that you'll like this one as much as you do my other stories, even though this concerns a different – and in my opinion much more important – book … thanks …

**Warning:**

Story will contain references to child abuse.

Child abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever - of once having been abused, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

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**… and sit a while with me …**

**Part one ****– **of teachers and pupils

**Chapter two ****– **Prologue – the calm before the storm

**September 13****th**** 1942, Sunday – Hathaway Academy**

**Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

With a heavy sigh of annoyance, Hereweald Hrothgar leaned back in his chair, stretching stiff muscles after sitting at his desk for hours – and it wasn't even the first day of school. No – this particular and rather unpleasant happening would present itself tomorrow forenoon when the students began to arrive. A thing he cursed each year anew.

The students.

Little annoying snots between ten and eighteen years of age, who were holding a yearly – and _yearlong_ – competition about who'd drive him mad first, about who'd get into most trouble, and about who'd get himself – or others – killed first. Because if anyone was thinking that these bloody idiot brats were here to learn _anything_ – no, this was _wrong_ thinking. These damn children were here because no one wanted them, because they were troublesome and difficult children, children without parents or with parents unable – or unwilling – to handle them. And so they ended up here, at this school, at Hathaway Academy, the only home most of them knew.

Of course, no one would ever say it openly, and of course these bloody snots indeed _had_ a home – and a rather luxurious home even – and they were to return there for each summer holidays – but that didn't automatically mean that this home was their _real_ home. For most, it was just a place they went to for ten weeks during the year, eight weeks in summer and two weeks for Christmas, nothing else.

Not that it was any different with _him_, surely not!

_He_ was perfectly at home here too, he was – kind of unwanted and difficult too, but well, he'd never asked for this bloody post, and honestly, if it weren't for Hendrik – and of course for Elliot, then he would have left years ago already. That at least was what he told himself. Truth was that he just had come here as a child, when he'd been ten, just like all the other little snots, and he'd simply never left – except for the summer holidays of course. But each year after, he'd come back here, he'd come back home – just like he still did, thirty years later.

He hated this school, he hated teaching, and most particularly he hated the students.

He wasn't a patient man and he surely wasn't an understanding teacher either. He didn't like the students, he didn't like children in general, but well, that was a mutual thing because – the students didn't like him either. They simply endured each other because they had no other choice.

However, whether he liked them or not – once again it was the beginning of September and tomorrow was the day the students would arrive, a new term would start, and he was not looking forward to teaching the idiot simpletons who would annoy him to no end during the entire year, and who would cause his early death.

He was forty-one now – but he was sure he wouldn't celebrate his fiftieth birthday. Not that he celebrated _any_ birthday – or anything else at all – no! To celebrate anything would require socializing abilities, which he didn't have, or at least the wish to socialize with others – and that was the last wish he'd ever have for his entire life. He'd die before he'd socialize with anyone at all! In other words – there were no parties, no celebrations, no meetings except for a staff meeting every month and no tea times or coffee parties. Once in a while he indulged in a glass of whiskey together with Hendrik, but that was the farthest he'd ever go concerning any kind of social meetings.

But well, he had – one way or another – no other choice than to stay here and teach.

First, there was Hendrik VanHarkins, the only teacher here he accepted – and who accepted him just by the way – and who was, kind of … a – _'friend'_. Most likely the only – well, _'friend'_ he'd ever had – except for Olivia, of course, but that was a different story and he was not ready to think of her right now – preferably not ever.

Hendrik – well, Hendrik was also a teacher here now, and a teacher who was – just like him – a stern and a strict teacher, easily controlling his students without the need to become loud, but he also was – the only teacher here, the only person at all, whom he trusted to begin with. He didn't mind though, as already mentioned he was not a man who easily socialized in the first place and one _'friend'_ was clearly enough for him.

Well, he'd attended this very school when he'd been one of those bloody snots himself, together with Hendrik, and soon he had learned that here you either were ready to smash your fist in your opponent's face or you would have his fist in yours. And just because it was a different generation now, it didn't mean that it didn't happen anymore.

However, Hendrik and he had become friends rather soon back then, both of them being loners, and as much as Hendrik had kept his back free for years, he had kept Hendrik's back free as well. They had watched out for each other and they had supported each other – just as they did now too, even though it was now less successful than it had been back then because the circumstances had changed with the years.

And second – and one of these circumstances – well, Juan Garcia, the headmaster of this school, somehow had him on his toast.

It wasn't that he'd killed someone, surely not, but well, he'd done his fair share of things when he'd been younger, things he'd rather not think of right now, and yes, one of these things had cost someone's life.

Sighing, he – like so often – realized that, yes, if he was honest with himself, then he _had_ killed someone. It had been kind of a mistake, and he'd been a child himself back then, but he'd killed someone, and he could be glad that he wasn't in jail for the remainder of his life. Garcia had kept him out of jail, and that was the reason as to why Garcia _had_ him on his toast and he couldn't do anything against it.

Well, and then, a few years later he'd stricken someone dead again, out of pure rage and fury after the guy had killed –

Closing his eyes, he again forced himself away from this particular line of thinking. He poured himself a glass of whiskey while he forced himself to not going down this damn road, not tonight, not when the students would be arriving tomorrow forenoon, because he knew, if he allowed himself weakness, then he would end up with an entire _bottle_ of his strongest whiskey – and _then_ he wouldn't be presentable by tomorrow forenoon.

However, back to Garcia – that bastard just wanted him at this bloody school of his because barely any person was ready to teach here. This school did have a reputation and this reputation was – even though this was one of the better and clearly more expensive schools for _'difficult'_ children – a bad reputation. A teacher at this school needed to be not only hard and tough, he also needed to be prepared for mischief that would be annoying, frustrating, and tiring to no end in the best case, and could kill in the worst case.

Well, Hathaway was an academy for the rich, for the rich who had children but no time for them due to either their job or travelling around the world where their children would be a hindrance to them only, and so they sent them – most of them difficult children due to their parents never having had any time for teaching them manners, respect, discipline, or anything else – here, paying a sum that was horrendous, rather than taking care of their little snots they had sired and produced. Well, they just didn't care about the money because they had their children out of the way so that they could work or travel in peace and freedom. It was as easy as this, nothing new here.

Scowling, the Chemistry Professor looked back at the piece of paper in front of him, reading through the names.

Julian Fitzgerald, Bryan McKinney and Jacob Graham – they would be his new fifth grade students. He didn't have any information about Julian Fitzgerald and the folder in front of him at the desk, bearing the name Bryan McKinney didn't hold much information either. Jacob Graham, that boy he knew and for a moment the corner of his lip curled into what could be considered as a tiny little smile, because he knew the family and therefore he knew the child – a spoiled child who was his godson, but a child that bore manners if nothing else and he was sure that Jacob Graham Senior had sent the boy here just because he, Hereweald Hrothgar, was teaching here.

Jeremy Haynes, Marvin O'Dough, Gideon Moore and Jimmy Bishop – well these four were his students for two years now and they were in seventh grade now – twelve year old little pre-teen monsters, but he had managed to work with them fairly well during these past two years.

Jeremy Haynes wasn't really a criminal. That boy wouldn't harm anyone. He just sometimes – took things which didn't belong to him. Not because he wanted to _have_ them, but because he thought he _needed_ them to survive – and mostly food. And yes, even the children of the rich could fear these things. Fear of starvation wasn't reserved for the poor only, he soon had realized that upon living here. However, the boy had started – at one point or another – to realize that he would get enough food here at the school and then it had gotten a bit better, but sometimes – and especially shortly after the summer holidays – he feared he wouldn't, and then self preservation and instinct took the upper hand.

Marvin O'Dough wasn't really a criminal either.

That boy was just not listening to anyone because he'd been forced to care for himself after his mother had died when he'd been really small. His father hadn't been able to care for the brat after his wife's untimely death and soon one nursemaid after another had cycled through the household of the owner of a renowned bank in New York. And these nursemaids, they hadn't cared about the boy either, but only the money they got – and he was sure about that, because otherwise they would have done a better job – and in the end Marvin had been forced to learn how to care for himself – what had made him independent, and he, Hereweald Hrothgar, soon had learned that it was best to allow the boy his independence. It came along with less trouble than if he were to force the boy to listen and depend on him, his head of house. If the boy was to do things by himself, then so be it, as long as he cleared away the mess he had created in the act afterwards, which he always did.

He wouldn't say the same about Gideon Moore and Jimmy Bishop. Neither boy cared much about _anything_ at all, and they acted accordingly, even with violence if necessary.

It was getting better later into each school year – but upon coming back from the summer holidays it was always the same again, they just didn't care because at home no one cared either. Where Jeremy wouldn't get enough food at home and where Marvin wouldn't get enough love and care at home – he shuddered at alone the _thought_ of the word love – there Gideon and Jimmy didn't get enough attention at home. Their parents didn't care about anything they did, never mind if it was a criminal act or just a stupid thing they were performing, and he was sure that they wouldn't even care if these boys were to murder someone one day – and so the two boys did one stupid thing upon the other just to – try and get the adults around them to act, one way or another, they didn't care about positive attention they received or negative attention, as long as the adults around them provided them with any kind of attention in the first place.

Not that he would believe in any of these psychological nonsense theories which had come up lately! He was Hereweald Hrothgar, dark and tough teacher, the most hated teacher at Hathaway Academy even, and the only things he did, were handing out detention, bad marks, and extra essays for the idiots to write. Should Hendrik take the little snots by the hand, he refused to do such a stupid thing and ruin his reputation in the act!

There wasn't much to say about Benjamin Snyder and Tyrone Yates. Both were eight grade boys of thirteen years and his students for three years now. They were just the sons of rich people who cared more about one trip around the world upon another – just like Nathan Ortega and Michael Foley, ninth grade fourteen year old little snots. They were the sons of managers, hoteliers and bankiers.

Well, Johnny Constantin and Reginald Freeman were the next on his list, and his oldest students. They had turned seventeen years old at one time or another this spring and summer and were twelfth grade students now – and therefore, it would be their last year at this school. They would have to leave next summer when they turned eighteen – to find work, to start an apprenticeship, or to rot on the streets. He'd make them prefects for the year and after that they wouldn't be his concern anymore.

Frank Benson had been the prefect from his house last year, but the boy had left this summer. The brat hadn't just found work, but had even been able to start an apprenticeship at the garage down the road, not far away from the police station. He just hoped that the boy wouldn't drop out before his time.

Not that he cared.

He was Hereweald Hrothgar, the most hated teacher at this academy and he cared about nothing and no one, not even about the students in his own house. No – he just made sure that they started an apprenticeship or a job so that they wouldn't destroy his reputation. He was known for being a strict and demanding teacher, expecting the best from the students of his house and expecting them to not land with their lazy butts on the streets, but to take their lives into their own hands. He'd have their hides if they didn't and they knew it, because he'd never lost a student to the streets and he wouldn't allow any bloody idiot to destroy this statistic.

Frowning he read the next – and last – two names: Elliot and Jamie Novak.

That made fifteen students – again – while normally a teacher at this academy was the head of a house for ten students only. Not to mention that – to his knowledge Elliot's brother was nine only and a third grade student now, while this academy was for fifth and higher grade students between the age of ten and eighteen years … _and_ – not to mention that the name Jamie Novak didn't wake the best of memories.

Elliot Novak was his student for four years now, would enter his fifth year by tomorrow forenoon – and he was surely one of the most complicated students he'd ever had. The now fifteen year old had somehow always been … the one he'd kept two eyes on instead of one only. He liked the boy – and that meant a lot as he didn't like _anyone_. Except for his godson, maybe, a little bit. He was a misanthrope, truly and honestly, and sometimes he didn't even like himself. Yes, sure, he was – _kind of_ – friends with Hendrik, but that didn't automatically mean that he liked the other man. He was just one of the few, one of the _very_ few, which he didn't _dislike_ – or even _hate_.

And children, even the students in his own house, he _did_ dislike _very_ much. Not that this was a bad thing, because the students from the other houses he disliked even more, actually _loathed_ them and he was a master in showing them this little fact – where he came back to the, for him, pleasant knowledge that he was the most detested teacher at this school, a bastard – but he was very satisfied with his reputation, because that meant less trouble. Those bloody little snots feared him – and so they freely obeyed his orders, never mind if these orders were about lessons, homework, detentions, or other things.

But well, this boy, Elliot, he'd always liked him. Maybe because he'd been so much more in need of his help than all the other little snots, he didn't know. Maybe because somehow he'd reminded him of his own childhood, he didn't know that either. Maybe it was just because that boy with his open and childish ways had always clung to him, from the first day he'd set foot into his house and this very office – as annoying as it had been.

It was a cold office, cast in just as cold neon light that gave neither warmth nor friendliness. White walls that were cold too gave the impression of a sterile room and the only warm colour was the brown of his desk, the shelf that stood to one wall and the sideboard to the other. Well, and the dark wooden planks of the floor. Alright, and the large window that faced the part of the campus grounds where the bloody children met for their breaks too, the schoolyard and the lawn. Maybe his office wasn't as cold as he wished it to be, causing the little snots to think he could be friendly too, idiot little horrors. He always gave out an added portion of detentions, just for compensation and teaching the little snots that he wasn't friendly at all.

However, he always called the students of his house – one by one – to his office upon arriving at school, to have a few words with the older students, about their holidays, about troubles at home. Not that he cared, he just wanted to make sure that they were alright and wouldn't have trouble with their concentration during his lessons, but surely he didn't care, no. Well, not to mention that he needed to remind them about his expectations anyway, and to get his rules down to the younger and new students, knowing that it was in vain because they would get into trouble sooner rather than later anyway.

And so of course he had called Elliot Novak to his office too, back then, four years ago – and so his own private horror had begun.

**Flashback**

_The knock on his office door was a clearly shy and timid knock and he could hear that it was a fifth grade, but well, he'd told the student who'd been here before for his yearly 'after-summer-conversation', Warren Jennings, to send Elliot Novak, the only new student and the youngest of them to his office and the new fifth grade students always were shy and timid in their knocking at doors. _

_The conversation with Warren Jennings hadn't been too pleasant. The boy had killed another boy during the holidays. _

_He didn't know how Jennings Senior had managed to keep his son out of jail, most likely somehow – probably with money – convincing the officers that it had been an act of self-defence. But in their conversation, Warren had told him that it hadn't been self-defence. The boy had been angry and in his anger he'd shoved the other boy down the stairs. It had been an accident, but an accident that had caused the death of another child._

_He wouldn't tell anyone. _

_They had one rule here in his house – you lie to me, and you'll be in trouble, you never lie to me and I'll do what I can. _

_He would work with the brat so that one day he would tell someone himself, but until then the boy had to live with what he'd done – like him. He hadn't had the same luck back then, when he'd been a student here. Sure, his head of house, Juan Garcia, had kept him out of the story, hadn't told anyone, sure, telling him he'd be executed should the police find out and had it looking like an accident, but instead of giving him a chance to see his mistake he'd used it against him from the beginning on._

_Closing his eyes to shove away old memories, he took a deep breath before calling in his new – and at the moment only – fifth grade, Elliot Novak. _

_He'd seen the boy when his parents had brought him this late afternoon, Carmichael and Michelle Novak. _

_Carmichael Novak was the owner of a large dojo and his wife Michelle had a just as well running beauty salon – in other words, again business people who didn't have enough time for their son. However, the boy was small and upon studying the file Garcia had given him, he was sure that there had to be more to that, he just couldn't place a name to it._

_Looking up upon the door opening - he nearly groaned when the boy came in – wearing a white button down pyjama with brown bunnies and a stuffed bunny in his arms even though it wasn't bedtime yet._

_"Sit down, Mr. Novak." He said, pointing at the chair opposite. "Any explanation as to why you are wearing your pyjamas before curfew? It isn't even lunchtime yet."_

_"Uhm, dunno, sir." The boy said, unsurely, watching him with large dark brown eyes in a pale face. _

_"How eloquent." He huffed at the little imbecile. "We will need to work on that. For now, however, I expect you to ban words like 'dunno', 'wanna' as well as other similar expressions from your vocabulary. You are a ten year old student at a renowned academy and no pre-school toddler anymore – and therefore I expect more from you than speech like you have just displayed."_

_"Oh, alright. Sorry, sir." The boy said, sounding honest, and he scowled down at the little imp. The bloody brat was swinging his legs because he couldn't reach the floor with them and he was still cradling his bunny in his arms. _

_"Now again – is there any explanation as to why you are wearing your pyjamas before curfew and before dinner even?" He asked, watching the little idiot child coldly while leaning back in his armchair and crossing his arms in front of his chest. _

_"Well, I'm tired, sir?" The boy asked, still looking up at him with his large eyes._

_"Was that a question or a statement, Mr. Novak?" He asked barely able to keep himself from sighing. Little imbecilic and snotty toddlers, he hated them the most. The younger they were the worse they were._

_"Uhm, a statement, sir?" Came Novak's answer. _

_"Then I expect you to have it sounding like a statement instead of like a question." He growled._

_"Oh, alright." The boy said again, starting to smile at him, the bloody little horror! At him! That idiot child actually dared smiling at him! Hereweald Hrothgar! He would show him, the little snot! He'd have him in detention even before his first dinner at this school!_

_"Very well, Mr. Novak." He started, getting off his armchair and rounding his desk, leaning against the table. "As long as you are a student at not only this academy but of my house even, I expect you to give your best." He started with his usual speech to the new students. "I expect the best behaviour from you, always, and I expect the best efforts in your studies, always. You will handle not only the teachers but the older students too with respect and honour. You will regard curfew which is at nine p.m. for you, and you will be present during each meal which will be held at eight a.m., noon, four p.m. and at seven p.m. You will visit all your classes – no exceptions, and you will do your homework. Any contempt regarding these rules, and you will get into detention – with me. Any questions so far, Mr. Novak?"_

_"No, sir." The boy said, quickly shaking his head and – nearly hopping on his chair._

_"Very well." He sighed. He knew that – questions or not, the idiot child would surely get into trouble because of the rules he had just set sooner or later, and most likely it would be sooner than later even. They all did, Novak wouldn't be an exception. "There are three more rules which concern this house. Number one – never lie to me, never mind what or you will learn how unpleasant a consequence can become. Second – never go against your own, in other words – you won't fight with any student of your own house. It is enough that the students of the other houses go against this house, I don't need you fighting amongst each other too. And third – never, absolutely never, shame your house or your head of house – or again, you might learn how unpleasant your situation could become while being a student at this school. Any questions so far?" _

_"No, sir." The idiot child repeated, again quickly shaking his head and he growled angrily at the display of childish behaviour. _

_"Then you are dismissed." He growled at the bloody brat. "See that you get yourself presentable for dinner. Jeans, shirt, t-shirt if you don't own a shirt and shoes instead of – socks." He said, looking down at the idiot child's feet which were dangling midair, dismissing him with a wave of his hand and turning to get back behind his desk._

_"Sir?" The damn, bloody child asked and for a moment he gritted his teeth before turning back and glaring down at the little monster. _

_"What is it now, Mr. Novak?" He asked, taking a deep breath. He'd always told Garcia that he couldn't handle children, from the beginning on he'd told him!_

_"Uhm, I just _… _I just wanted to ask _… _well, can I take Bunny with me, sir?" The little bothersome horror had the nerve to ask and for a moment he actually _… _that damn, idiot, bloody imbecile wanted to take _…

_Bunny!?_

_"I do not know if you can, Mr. Novak, but you may not." He finally said. "Your toys will remain in your room which I expect to be presentable, always."_

**End flashback **

Well, alone the downtrodden face Elliot had made back then, _finally_ _not_ smiling at him like an idiot, had been worth the horrified conversation he'd had with his newest student, and he'd enjoyed it. Alright – he hadn't _really_ enjoyed it, but it had been satisfying that the brat had _thought_ he'd enjoy it. Once anew he'd secured his reputation.

Until dinner.

Dinner he'd met the boy again – and again the child had been smiling at him happily, as if he hadn't hurt the boy's feelings before. But well, he wasn't here to regard their feelings. It was his job to teach them something and to prepare them for life out there, nothing else. However, the brat had smiled at him again just an hour later, during dinner!

And like this – it had been like this for four years now – never mind what, this damn little horror was smiling at him happily whenever he met him, never mind what he was doing, never mind what he was saying, never mind _anything_! At first it had been annoying, then he had gotten used to it, after that it had become somewhat bearable, and finally he'd actually missed the little snot's smiling during the summer holidays after the first year. Not the little snot's clinging habit! No! Never that! But he – secretly of course – admitted that he'd missed the idiot child's damn and happy smiling at him.

Of course he'd soon learned that there was more to this child.

Leaning back in his armchair he took a deep breath and crossed his arms.

Elliot was the child of an unhappy man who thought his son had to be as good and as strong as was he himself and as were all the young men he taught at one of the best combatant sport schools of America – and if the child didn't fit his expectations then he tried to toughen the boy up with beatings and by screaming at him, by telling him how worthless he was – as if that would help. But well, he always had to handle such idiot parents – more or less. Most of them neither answered any information he sent out nor visited parent–teacher conferences, and upon trouble at school, the accusation of child abuse or child neglect, whatever, they reacted by just sending their lawyers instead of facing him, nothing new here – again.

What made him so angry right now was – Elliot's brother, Jamie.

That boy, had been the reason as to why Mr. Novak Senior had stepped up the child abuse, verbally as well as physically, making it clear to his older son that he was worth nothing and that his younger brother would live up to his expectations because he hadn't been born with a weak heart. For years, Elliot had come back from his summer holidays with new horror stories about how his little brother had been loved and got everything while he got nothing and was only beaten.

And yes, he'd found the marks soon after the very first conversation he'd had with the boy back then, when Elliot had come to Hathaway, a stuffed rabbit in his arms – the only thing the boy had ever gotten from his parents, while his little brother had _boxes_ of stuffed animal at home. The boy had fallen asleep at the table during dinner in the canteen and back then he'd had a nice view of the boy's neck when he'd leaned forward and his head had lain atop his arms. He'd then taken the boy to the school medic, to Goodwin, and from there to a hospital where they'd documented each bruise and each other injury, including a broken rib even.

He'd then informed the boy's parents, but of course there hadn't come any reaction except for – the appearance of their lawyer with a story about … how the boy had fallen down the stairs, how the boy had visited his father's dojo without his permission and had tried some of the training equipment and had fallen, how the boy had accidentally burned his hand when he had built a fire in the garden without his parents' knowledge … and more such nonsense. Of course he knew that it was nonsense, he wasn't stupid and he knew very well what the bruising from falling down the stairs looked like, and what bruising from a beating looked like. But well, it was the same story all the parents told upon the accusation of child neglect and child abuse.

However, he'd soon learned the truth from the boy, even though he'd clung to him, crying, smearing snot and tears all over his black shirt, he'd told him about his father calling him weak and beating him and about his mother forgetting him and sending him away, and about his little brother who got everything and was loved. To his knowledge Elliot had loved his little brother anyway, but after this one conversation where Elliot had told him everything, the boy had been very miserable and depressed for days, for weeks. It had cost him some time and effort to get the boy back to the smiling idiot he'd been before – even though he had liked the depressed and silent Elliot who had left him alone more than the smiling idiot.

But well – ever since he'd been better after that, Elliot had clung to him like a leech.

And now Jamie Novak was to visit this academy.

So – no, he was really not happy about that.

Not only did he _not_ look forward to the next ten years, having a spoilt and most likely arrogant brat in his house, a child that would be jealous about anything his brother would get here as he had no intentions continuing with the evil concept their parents had started years ago upon the birth of Jamie Novak, but also did he wonder why they would send their younger – and clearly beloved – son too.

Admittedly, this school _did_ have the best reputation as an _educational_ academy – for difficult children. But surely Elliot's brother was no difficult child. Admittedly, the boy was surely not easy to handle, most likely spoiled rotten, seeing that he'd gotten anything he wanted for the past about eight years, but clearly not a really difficult child.

And the next question was – why would they send the boy to attend Hathaway, a school for children between the age of ten and eighteen years, when he was just nine years old? And he doubted that the boy would turn ten during the beginning of this upcoming school year, because the birthday that was listed behind the name did not sound as if the little imp would turn ten anytime soon, his birthday had been September eleventh, just two days ago.

**Flashback**

_"Professor?" Elliot asked, looking up at him unsurely, like so often – his dark eyes large and questioning as if he wanted to ask: "Why would you do such a thing?"_

_"It is your birthday, Elliot, isn't it?" He asked, while sitting down so that the much too small boy wouldn't need to look up at him. He wouldn't do such a thing normally, should the brats look up at him, that was alright, but he did with this particular child, whatever reason for. He wasn't one for sentimentality. Sentimentality was something for the weak, and the stupid, and he was anything than weak – nor stupid._

_It was different with this particular child anyway. _

_Elliot had been handled badly for all his life so far, and each year the boy had to go back to his yearly hell some people might call a home. He wouldn't treat the child the same. Not to mention that, well, the boy had somehow curled him around his fingers – and he knew it, the bloody little bother!_

_"Sure." The boy said, still not understanding what he was on about. "But, I've never gotten anything, sir."_

_"Then it's time that you get your first birthday present ever." He growled darkly. _

_It was the boy's twelfth birthday today. He hadn't given the boy anything last year. As a teacher at this school it wasn't his duty to give out birthday presents to his students, that was the job of their parents and not even all of them fulfilled this - like Mr. Novak for example. Well, considering that he was the head of a house, then maybe people could say – yes, it's a small house only and so, as the head of the house he was to give a small present to his students. He didn't._

_And he only gave one to Elliot because – well, because it was Elliot. _

_That particular little monster had been through enough and well – he would set an end to this._

_A moment later he regretted his decision, however, when he had a handful of boy clinging to his neck, trying to choke him to death while – again – crying and smearing tears and snot all over his nice black shirt. _

**End flashback**

Of course he had folded his arms around the boy back then, had comforted him – just so that the idiot boy would stop smearing his snot all over his shirt of course and for no other reason … and even though, he'd never admit that openly and neither had Elliot, ever. It had gotten better upon the boy's thirteenth birthday and at his fourteenth birthday he'd just barely cried, had only sniffed a bit. The boy had even smiled his usual happy smile at him and it had felt – well, not bad.

Well, the boy would celebrate his fifteenth birthday at the beginning of this school year, October first, and this year he wouldn't get a real present, he'd get an envelope only – an envelope with the appliance papers for the school summer camp.

The school organized such a camp for the students of the upper grades. For the last three years of school they could attend this camp that started the day after school had ended for summer and it ended a week before the new school year would start. In other words, Elliot would have to go home for one week only instead of eight weeks. One week that was less likely to be hell for the boy.

He knew from experience that a child that came home for one week only was met with parents able to endure their child for these few days – sometimes even being happy upon having their son at home for that short time – the abuse normally only started later, after the first or second week of the holidays, when the parents would like to get rid of their children, after the children became bothersome again, keeping them from travelling around the world or similar.

However, now Elliot's younger brother who was cherished at home beyond reason would come to Hathaway – and he didn't understand.

Hathaway expected the children to have finished primary school, to have completed the process of learning how to read and write, not to mention other things like basic arithmetic operations. A barely nine year old surely had attended school for two years only, and therefore had not completed this particular process of learning how to read and write, and he groaned at the realisation that he would have to deal with illegible handwriting and with written mistakes which would drive him crazy.

Well, he would deal with it, just like he had dealt with anything else life had thrown at him during the years – he would deal with this now too.

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**Viewpoint of Hendrik VanHarkins**

"Found your way down here to the canteen, Hereweald?" Hendrik chuckled, pulling the chair beside him from the table and making room. "It's the first time I've seen you here before you absolutely have to be – which usually would be by tomorrow at lunchtime. What happened?"

"An idiot colleague who threatened to visit me happened." Hereweald growled darkly.

"I wonder who'd do such a thing." He mused, a big grin plastered on his face and the other man scowled darkly. His face darkened even more at the Aspirin he was reaching over at him.

"Bloody idiot!" Hereweald huffed, but he took the Aspirin anyway, clearly grateful for someone caring enough to think about such things even though he himself wouldn't.

Hendrik VanHarkins – the bloody idiot – at the same time chuckled at the grumpy man beside him while he filled his plate with the stew and took a slice of bread.

Hereweald Hrothgar was probably the most complicated man on this earth – and the most ill-tempered man also. He was dark, cold, hard – and grumpy, cantankerous. That at least was the picture he always displayed to the world. Well – not that he _wasn't_ each of these things, he _really was_, but he knew no one who displayed these things with as much care and effort as did Hereweald, always careful to keep up his bad reputation. That man was a real actor, because he not only managed to scare the students, but the teachers also. There were only three people at this school who weren't scared of Hereweald – and they were Garcia, Goodwin, and him.

Alright – no, he wouldn't bet his behind on Garcia. Garcia was a bastard – and a coward. But well, Garcia wasn't his concern, but Hereweald was, because Hereweald was his friend. Not that the other man would ever admit that they were friends, anything but _that_, not even to himself – but he knew that they were just that anyway or why else would Hereweald stay at this bloody school he hated so much to cover his, Hendrik's back if not because of him?

Smiling, he watched Hereweald taking the Aspirin – _secretly_ smiling of course. He would never dare to smile openly at the dark man, he wasn't stupid enough, after all, to incur Hereweald's wrath. It happened sometimes, whenever he got into an argument with his friend, or whenever he couldn't help himself and started laughing at the dark teacher's antics, but the absolute coldness and darkness this particular man could display, it was cutting through people like a knife and anything but fun.

And he knew that Hereweald didn't care about whom he was tearing apart, student, teacher, employer, or friend – he just did, and he was damn good in his job. On the other hand, Hereweald Hrothgar was a man who would go through all the fires of hell and back for the people he cared about, if necessary, he would die for the people he cared about – and that was what he valued most, Hereweald was absolutely loyal to his friends.

"Feeling better?" He asked a few minutes later, seeing the other man relaxing his shoulders and the muscles on his neck. A bit at least. He'd never ever in his life seen Hereweald being _completely_ relaxed, even though he was nearly at ease whenever he was visiting him for a tumbler of his better whiskey.

"Hmpf." Was the only answer he got, which was the same meaning as – yes.

"You know, some people would call it idiocy, enduring headaches the likes you have instead of taking an Aspirin." He said while dipping his bread into the stew. "Or masochism."

"Headaches?" Adam Goodwin who was sitting to his left asked, leaning over to look at Hereweald. "You've headaches again, Hereweald?"

"Surely not." Hereweald growled, stubbornly, and he couldn't help chuckling. "And even _if_ I had such a thing, which I have _not_, then it wouldn't be your concern, Goodwin. And _you_, VanHarkins, stop laughing! That's no fun! Idiot bunch, all of you, worse than those bloody idiot students! And just by the way, you should be careful what you accuse others of, because the display of your own masochism while drawing my wrath over your head by accusing me of having anything similar to headaches was a rather stupid thing to do."

"I'd like to see you in my office after dinner, Hereweald." Adam said, and he rolled his eyes, already knowing Hereweald's answer.

"I'd like to see you in hell – regrettably we don't get what we want, Goodwin." Hereweald answered and Adam shook his head. In other words, Hereweald was _very_ moody tonight.

"Stop fussing, Hrothgar, and do as Goodwin asked." Garcia said, and he leaned back in his chair, waiting for the explosion that surely was to come, because not only was Hereweald not one who'd allow others to tell him off, but also because it was Garcia who did just this – and these two, well … they were like fire and ice.

"I suggest you stay out of this, Garcia." Hereweald hissed at the headmaster, his dark brown, nearly black eyes, eyes fixing the older man coldly and he held his breath for a moment. Garcia was one of the people who expected more than just respect from not only the students but from his teachers just as well and he could turn very nasty if he didn't get it. "Or it might be that – only _accidentally_ of course – I might drop one of my chemicals over your morning coffee … and the funny thing is: no one would even care, Garcia." Hereweald added with a coldly lifted eyebrow at the headmaster. Well, this was surely not what he had planned when he had asked Hereweald to partake in the last common dinner before the students' arrival tomorrow forenoon. But then Garcia just shrugged his shoulders and continued eating, causing him to cast a quick look at Hereweald.

But well, he shouldn't have worried. Garcia had never challenged Hereweald openly, knowing that never mind _how_ nasty he could turn, Hereweald could turn even nastier if he so wished. No, Garcia would get back on Hereweald when the other man had turned his back on him, he knew, because it wouldn't be the first time.

He dropped the subject, as did Adam, because neither of them was suicidal after all, knowing that Hereweald could tear them apart midair if he was really annoyed at them. But well, at least he had taken the Aspirin and that was more than he had expected. Years ago he would have ignored anything anyone gave for relief, out of the feeling that he wasn't worth it because of one or another thing he'd done in his past.

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**Viewpoint of Adam Goodwin**

Contrary to Hendrik VanHarkins, Adam Goodwin still chuckled silently. He wasn't like Hendrik, trying to not annoy his friend – not to mention that Hereweald wasn't his friend in the first place. He liked the dark and grumpy man, yes, because he had seen the teacher without his mask, even though it was a rare occasion, Hereweald Hrothgar dropping his mask. But well, Hereweald had no friends except for Hendrik and so – no, they weren't friends. Even though the friendship between Hereweald and Hendrik was the strangest friendship he'd ever seen in his life and he was sure that Hereweald wouldn't call it a friendship at all, not ever.

Leaning back in his chair he watched the two men for a moment, like so often realizing that there couldn't be two persons who were as different as were Hereweald and Hendrik.

Where Hendrik had short, blond hair and pale skin with startling bright blue eyes, there Hereweald had long, black hair, dark brown, nearly black eyes, and was suntanned. This man just had to look at the sun to get a nice tan.

Hendrik was a man of nature. He was calm and he'd never seen a more serene and patient man than was Hendrik. There was barely anything that got on his nerves and he was always smiling – or at least he was barely angry. _He_ after all had never seen the Arithmetic Professor angry. He liked everyone, or at least nearly everyone, and especially the students. Hereweald was the entire opposite – ill-tempered, dark, cold, and most importantly, very impatient. He didn't know of one single student who hadn't gotten into detention with the man at least twice a year and the students hated him while they loved Hendrik.

The clothes they preferred were just as different. Hereweald always wore black jeans and a black button-down shirt while Hendrik preferred blue jeans and a white button-down shirt. Both were tall, taller than him, and he wasn't short to begin with, but where Hendrik was well built, there Hereweald was thin and wiry, tough and stringy.

Hendrik was good looking – really good looking – and he was sure that the man was followed by hordes of women out there during the summer and winter break at every turn he took. For a moment he wondered why Hendrik had never taken a woman, but then – what would a woman do all year long while her husband was teaching at a boarding school for boys! Of course Hendrik had never taken a woman – and he was sure that he could have any woman he wanted.

On the other hand – Hendrik had mentioned something once, just a few words spoken out of thoughtlessness, about Hereweald and a woman called Olivia. And if he had understood Hendrik correctly, then they had been married – even though he didn't really understand how any woman could be interested in Hereweald as he was anything than good looking and Hendrik had never ever again told him more than those few words he had spoken out of thoughtlessness back then.

Hereweald too _could_ be good looking – if he so wished. With his dark brown, nearly black eyes, and with his black hair and the dark tan he got while just _looking_ at the sun – he _could_ be good looking. If he ate a bit more so that he wasn't just bones and skin, and if he cut his hair, if he did something about that scar that ran over half of the left side of his face, and if he changed his black clothes into some colourful things for a change too. Not to mention if he tried to look a bit friendlier instead of his constant dark and angry glare. All in all, it was no wonder that this woman called Olivia had divorced Hereweald rather soon after the marriage.

The only things they had in common was their voices. Both had deep and full voices, smooth and velvet, even though Hereweald could drop his voice even deeper than Hendrik could, and he could make everyone shudder with his voice, especially if he displayed his nearly always present sarcasm. Hendrik could be sarcastic too, but not in the same way, he didn't hurt people with his sarcasm whereas Hereweald didn't care about that, never sparing anyone's feelings. And he didn't make a difference between friend and foe. Even though Hendrik never minded Hereweald's sometimes hurtful comments, always chuckling at the other man's antics which made Hereweald even grumpier.

All in all, Hendrik was a very straightforward, well-balanced, and open-minded person whereas Hereweald was very complicated, very unbalanced, and anything but open-minded – on the contrary, he was even more stubborn than the donkey from the farmer at the other end of the small village.

Why these two were as close friends as they actually were, he didn't know, because sometimes they didn't behave like friends. He was sure that Hendrik had never been to Hereweald's quarters, to his knowledge no one ever had. It was rather the other way round and Hereweald was visiting Hendrik every now and then – about once in a fortnight – for a tumbler of whiskey and to exchange views with each other. Sometimes they could be seen walking through the grounds or along the fields and through the nearby woods, but not too often, and honestly, how these two managed to get along as well as they actually did, it was a small miracle to him – as was the question as to how Hendrik managed to handle Hereweald.

The dark man often had headaches or stiff muscles, but did he allow anyone to help? No!

Once he'd given him Aspirin for a very bad headache, and Hereweald had already reached out to take it when he had just said something harmless like "next time, you just come and ask for help _before_ your headaches get as bad as they are right now" and a moment later he had met the other man's gaze, cold and hard, and then Hereweald had pulled back his hand, had lifted his eyebrow challengingly and coldly, and had turned, had walked away, leaving him standing there with his Aspirin.

He doubted that the idiot man had taken anything for his headache later, because in the evening the teacher had been even more irritable and snappy than he was normally, not even the students in his own house had dared to misbehave. It wasn't that Hereweald didn't know a remedy for headaches, he did know that very well – if others had them, like his students for example. He was able to provide them with cold clothes, with peppermint oil or he sent them to bed, if necessary even giving them a painkiller – very much to his, Adam's, displeasure.

Of course, he knew that they had nearly none to nothing adequate when it came to medications for the students. At first America had provided England for nearly a year with not only weapons and ammunition but with medications too, and then, nearly a year ago, they had joined the Second World War too. In other words – the little medications they had at their disposal were barely appropriate for children, like Aspirin for painkillers for example – but well, they had to take what they got, and they got barely enough.

He also knew very well that Hereweald was adept when it came to medications and first aid or similar health concerns to begin with, the man was both, a graduated biologist and chemist after all. But he, Adam Goodwin, he was the doc here at Hathaway and he didn't like it if the teachers started interfering into his trade, because if one started with this, then others would follow, and not everyone was as experienced as was Hereweald.

However, Hendrik was much better at handling Hereweald than _he_ was and mostly he left this lovely task to the Arithmancy Professor – even though he couldn't help asking the darker man into his office, knowing that he wouldn't visit anyway.

Yawning he closed his eyes for a moment.

He would go to bed early tonight. Tomorrow the students would arrive and he would have to deal with the summer flu, with hay fever, with other allergies and of course with other, much worse things – at least knowing Hereweald and Hendrik. Another thing the two of them had in common, contrary to the other teachers at this school, they cared about the students, _really_ cared, even though Hereweald would never admit it, not even to himself, and he would kill _anyone_ who just suggested the _idea_ of him caring about anything or anyone.

Once he'd seen the man handling one of his younger students who'd gotten hurt during a baseball game, the Novak boy, Elliot Novak, and Hereweald had not only held the boy so that he'd been able to care for the hand the boy had broken while falling on the base and trying to catch himself, but he'd also comforted the boy – something he'd never ever before had seen the man doing. And nothing else had it been, Hereweald even patting the boy's back and stroking his hair while giving away nonsense words.

After that he'd of course right out denied that he'd ever done such a thing and he'd threatened him with a lot of very unpleasant things should he accuse him of such an evil thing like comforting someone ever again – or even dare to tell anyone about what had happened – because to comfort someone was reserved for the weak and for the idiots, for the narrow minded of which he was neither. Of course he'd never told anyone – but that hadn't been necessary anyway, because enough students had seen it – and the coach too.

Hereweald hadn't been able to do anything about the coach – but he remembered that back then a lot – and really a lot – of students had been in detention with the Chemistry Professor, and for weeks so. Whenever there had been words whispered about how the most hated professor at this school had comforted a fifth grade student, the entire baseball team was found in detention again, and soon the rumours had stopped and the incident had been forgotten.

Yes, Hereweald Hrothgar had his own ways of ensuring that his bad reputation would never die at this academy.

break … ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ … line

* * *

**To be continued**

**Next time in ****… and sit a while with me …**

_Another time, another place and how other people are living together _…

**Added author's note**

thank you for reading – and yes, I would appreciate it if you took the time to review this chapter too, thank you …


	3. idiot tell tales

**Title:**

… and sit a while with me …

**Author:**

Mrs. Trabi

**Timeframe:**

1942 and 29 A.C.

**Summary:**

AU/Realization can be a hard thing and when it hits Hereweald Hrothgar, he's not too happy about it. Through an accident, he and his student, Jamie Novak, fall back to the year 29 A.C. to meet Jesus of Nazareth and His disciples – what will he, the dark and tough man from a different time learn from a man that knows him better than he knows himself? And what will the child learn from a man his parents have always said won't care about him because he has no worth?

**Disclaimer: **

Well … I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words nor the persons, places, or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies … I'm just borrowing things from that book, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story … I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

**Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

**Author's Notes:**

Here, I'd like to say that this story isn't meant to discredit the Bible, God, His word, Jesus, or anything we believe in. God is and remains our first and most important priority – or at least that it is what should be. I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult.

I will be trying to handle the subject as delicately and as seriously as possible, I promise, and I do hope that not only I won't be flamed for this, but that also I'll find one or another of my readers who'll gain a new view and understanding … and that you'll like this one as much as you do my other stories, even though this concerns a different – and in my opinion much more important – book … thanks …

**Warning:**

Story will contain references to child abuse.

Child abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me – I am …

* * *

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… **and sit a while with me …**

**Part one – of teachers and pupils**

**Chapter three ****–** Idiot tell-tales 

**Fall 29 A.C. about November – Jerusalem **

**Viewpoint of James**

He left the house and entered the front courtyard at the south-eastern side of the building, overlooking the fields and the road to the Dead Sea. He just needed to gather his own thoughts for a moment, to clear his mind and to – to understand. Or rather to come clean with what was to come, even though he didn't know how he could manage such a thing and he had to admit that – he was scared. And he was scared deeply of what was to come in a future surely not too far away from what he could feel and understand in his heart because it wasn't the first time that Jesus had foretold it.

They had come here to Jerusalem just last week, for the feast of tabernacles.

Jesus' brothers had reminded him of the feast – as if that had been necessary. His Lord had very well known that the feast would be celebrated. After all, well – Jesus was Jesus, wasn't he? And if _Jesus_ wouldn't know about the Jewish feasts, then who would? Sometimes he really thought that they didn't understand his Master. They sometimes acted as if – as if they wouldn't really believe in him, as if they wouldn't really know how to take him even though the young man had done everything in his power to support his family when Joseph had died.

But then, how difficult must it be for Jesus' family? To live with the knowledge that their brother was the living son of God himself? How difficult must it be for them to know that their eldest brother was sent down to earth by God Himself? They, the disciples, they were only the pupils and the friends of Jesus, just walking with him for about two and a half years now, and _they_ already were trying to catch up on him every now and then because he had lost them far behind from time to time. Not really, not in body, but in mind. So – how difficult must it be for Jesus' family to understand?

They loved him deeply, no question. He had seldom felt so much love in a family as in this one, Mary had seen to that, and whenever they came to Nazareth, then not only were all of them greeted heartily, but especially Jesus, with real and open joy in their hearts and they often asked them to stay longer, and longer, and longer. He was sure that Mary would have loved the idea of Jesus staying in Nazareth forever.

But with the knowledge of who Jesus truly was? Of course they sometimes didn't know – should they see in him their brother? Or should they see in him the son of God? Should they see in him their kin or should they see in him someone special? They had known him since their childhood, after all, they had known him as their brother and then, years later, they had learned that he was God's son? Sent down to earth to fulfil his Father's will and to save mankind? No, he really didn't envy them, because surely _that_ wasn't easy.

However, Jesus had told his brothers that – _'now is not the right time for me to go, but you can go anytime. The world cannot hate you, but me it hateth, because I accuse it of doing evil. You go on, I'm not going to the festival, because my time has not yet come.'_ And so Jesus had abode still in Galilee.

Just later on had he gone there too, unto the feast. Not openly, but as if it were in secret – something that was rather atypical for his Lord. Alright, not too atypical. It happened from time to time that Jesus took his leave in privacy – even though it might not always work as there were people noticing and then following them anyway – but well, in his opinion even Jesus had the right for some privacy from time to time, not to mention that, well, the Jews were on to – well – kill him recently, but that wasn't a first time after all either. Somehow his Lord was loved and hated at the same time, depending on whom they had met recently, and depending on what truths he had told people, truths they didn't want to hear. And so, people could love their Lord in one moment but wish to destroy and kill him just a moment later. But generally Jesus was an open man who made no secret of his sojourns – nor of his doings or believes.

Well, and at the feast the Jews had searched for Jesus and all the people had whispered about him but no one had dared speaking openly because they feared the Jews would kill him right there. He doubted that they would have done such a thing, murder at the temple during the feast, but somehow people seemed to fear just that.

Frowning he wondered if – wouldn't that have been a sin? He was sure of that. For a moment he even wondered how angry God must be at the Jews lately, because they, his own people, wanted to kill his son – howbeit he'd sent him down to safe all mankind, howbeit the Jews were his beloved people. Had Jesus talked with his Father about that? Sometimes it really wasn't easy to imagine how such a relationship between Jesus and God could even work – and how it could work as well as it actually did.

However, Jesus had gone to the temple anyway, to teach – of course to teach. Always to teach.

Not that he had a problem with that, he loved it to listen to Jesus and his teachings – it was just that, sometimes he was worried about his Lord, because sometimes the people didn't allow him some rest, always demanding miracles and wonders, demanding healing and blessing, and they never seemed to care about Jesus being tired or … or something – and Jesus would never care about it either because he put every other people above himself.

Sometimes people even sent for Jesus so that he may travel all his way to them and to heal them, disregarding his Master's own tiredness or troubles. He too, absolutely loved it to listen to Jesus' teaching, really – he just wished his Lord would take a rest from time to time. But well, that was wishful thinking and it would never occur.

**Flashback**

_"Listen! A sower went out to sow his seed." Jesus said, his voice clear and rich, and he relaxed – because everything was back to normal after a rather eventful day – alright, after a very eventful day and the only thing left he needed to care for now, was to get Jesus to take a rest too, and preferably sooner than later. "And as he sowed, some fell by the way side and it was trodden down, and the fowls of the air devoured it."_

_It was s__trange, how things could change from one moment to the other. One moment his Lord had been accused of doing a sin because he had healed someone on Sabbath day, and more then one person actually, and the next moment – well, people were standing at the shores, listening to Jesus telling a parable and not even allowing him some time to rest – and it was the Sabbath day – lo and behold! _

_And all had started with them being just hungry._

_"And some fell upon a rock." He listened to Jesus continuing with his parable for a moment, looking over to the man before he allowed his mind to go on striving again. "And as soon as it was sprung up, it withered away, because it lacked moisture."_

_Jesus had led them through the corn and Peter and John – and himself – had plucked some of the ears of the corn to eat them – and the Pharisees had seen it. And well, of course they had to tell on them, saying 'behold, thy disciples do that which is not lawful to do upon the Sabbath day.' _

_Those idiot tell-tales!_

_Really! _

_Holding his breath he looked over at Jesus who was comfortably sitting at the dark brown wooden plank in the boat, playing with one of the blades the fishermen used to gut the fishes with, and he sighed at the pointed look the other man cast at him for a moment. Of course Jesus had known his thoughts, like always. He really should try to keep such thoughts away, he knew, but that wasn't so easy! If he just knew how Jesus did this, not thinking bad of others once in a while if they annoyed him or if they accused him of one thing or another, or even went against him. _

_Sure, Jesus would not scold him for it, he wouldn't stop loving him and he wouldn't punish him either – it was just, he loved his Master and he hated it to disappoint him, even though it was in thought only. _

_"And some fell among thorns, and the thorns sprang up with it, and choked it." The young Jew continued without giving away a comment concerning his thoughts, and the people at the shore listened. "But other fell on good ground, and sprang up, and bare fruit a hundredfold."_

_Well, Jesus had answered them: 'Have ye not read what David did, when he was hungered? And they that were with him? They entered into the house of God and did eat the shewbread which was not lawful for him to eat, and neither for them which were with him but only for the priests.'_

_Well, they hadn't been able to say much about that. _

_Sometimes he thought that they were just jealous, the Pharisees, that they lacked the love Jesus provided them, his disciples, with – even though he didn't understand, because Jesus loved them just as much. He didn't know how his Lord did this, but he loved simply everyone. Maybe their hearts were so hardened that they couldn't receive his love as did they, Jesus' disciples. _

_Well, and then there had been this old man with the withered hand and even though the Pharisees had – again – reminded Jesus at the Sabbath day, he'd said unto them: "What man shall there be among you, that shall have one sheep and if it fall into a pit on the Sabbath day, will he not lay hold on it and lift it out? How much then is a man better than a sheep?"_

_Well, he'd healed the man's hand and the Pharisees had started to hold council against him but Jesus had withdrawn and a lot of people had followed him which he'd all healed of one or another thing. _

_"He that hath ears to hear, let him hear." Jesus said and for a moment he forced his thoughts back to the present, looked over at his Lord and he thought about the words. _

_He, that hath ears to hear, let him hear._

_Had Jesus said them because he had been absent with his mind? Only listening with one ear instead of with both his ears? _

_Knowing Jesus he knew that there was more to those words than just hearing a noise and going over them again he was sure that – people who not only heard the words with their ears, but concentrated on their meaning and took them in into their hearts, they would gain – well, an inner hearing, an understanding, an inner spiritual reception of truth – something along those lines. Closing his eyes for a moment he bowed his head in concentration to listen into himself, to listen to his own heart, sure that this time he had come close to what Jesus had meant. He had to admit that – sometimes they were just – well, out of step with Jesus, not really understanding his words._

_"Why do you use parables when you talk to the people?" John asked and he smiled – of course, let it be John to ask the question, and in front of audience no less._

_"You are permitted to understand the mysteries of the kingdom of God – but others are not." __Jesus answered but well, he was glad that their Lord was talking to them in parables too, because not only did he like them, but also it made it so much easier to understand, and to understand deeply. _"To those who listen to my teaching, more understanding will be given, and they will have an abundance of knowledge. But for those who are not listening, even what little understanding they have will be taken away from them. That is why I use these parables, for they look, but they don't really see, and they hear, but they don't really listen or understand. And this fulfills the prophecy of Isaiah that says, when you hear what I say, you will not understand and when you see what I do, you will not comprehend. For the hearts of these people are hardened, and their ears cannot hear, and they have closed their eyes, so their eyes cannot see, and their ears cannot hear, and their hearts cannot understand, and they cannot turn to me and let me heal them. But blessed are your eyes, because they see, and your ears, because they hear. Now, the parable is this: the seed is the word of God. Those by the way side are they that hear, then cometh the devil and taketh away the word out of their hearts lest they should believe and be saved. They on the rocks are they, which, when they hear, receive the word with joy and these have no root, which for a while believe and in time of temptation fall away. And that which fell among thorns are they, which, when they have heard, go forth and are choked with cares and riches and pleasures of this life, and bring no fruit to perfection. But that on the good ground are they, with an honest and good heart, having heard the word, kept it and bring forth fruit with patience."

**End flashback**

Sitting down at the wooden bench outside of the courtyard-house Jesus had built with them here in the south-eastern outskirts of Jerusalem some time ago, between the water-gate and the road to the Dead Sea, he looked around through the courtyard of the rather large house.

In the beginning, for more than a year, they had met at the house of Mary, Mark's mother and a faithful follower of Jesus. But then Jesus had insisted that they built a house of their own, all of them together, so that they always had a place of safety and shelter. Jesus had helped them, had shown them how to do such a thing, and he had told them that – this needed to be a house, a shelter and a place for all the disciples and followers or friends in need.

And the strange thing was – never had anyone, who had needed shelter, been bothered while residing here, at this house. Never had anyone, who had needed a safe place, been taken captured while residing here, at this house. It was as if a special blessing was laying over this place, over this house, as if God's hands were held above this roof too and not only the roof shingles.

Stretching his legs beneath the wooden table his thoughts went back to the memory about the parable Jesus had told back then, on that Sabbath day nearly a year ago, the parable of the sower.

Of course he knew that Jesus had spoken of the unresponsive people, they by the way side which failed to respond to the seed – or word – sown, so Satan quickly removed it lest they be saved – shallow hearted individuals who had neither the will to understand nor the wish to follow, shallow hearted individuals who had no roots and quickly withered away. And then the impulsive people, the stony ground – they were those who immediately received the words but would not continue to grow because they had no root either. They believed for a while but soon were deflected by other things they felt the need to follow. Their rejection of the word was as speedy as their reception of it. And then there were the preoccupied people, those among the thorns, which allowed legitimate matters, cares of this world and illegitimate matters, the deceitfulness of riches and the lusts of other things to take priority over the words. They were choked by worldliness and the materialism and of course nothing could deepen there because their hearts and minds were filled with earthly things already.

And – after all, who could fill a heart with love and with the words of God, if it was already filled with other things? It would be overflowing before the love and the words of God could sink deeper into the heart to push out the other things.

Well, and then there were few people only who received the seed, standing on good ground, and they would hear and receive, they would understand and they would take to heart the lecture. They would bear the fruit of faith with obedience and fidelity in them, they would be evidence of true conversion and belief.

Was _he_, James, one of them? Did he stand on good ground? He really tried to be, and he really hoped that he _was_ one of them – but what was his wish and what was his trying, it surely differed from what was reality. So – was he one of the last? With a good and open heart where the words could grow deep and then open up for all the mankind to love and to – to whatever? Was it that what Jesus had meant with – but many that are first shall be last, and the last shall be first? Because not only was it the last one, the smallest of them with lest regard and glory who would enter the kingdom of Heaven while the first ones, the rich and the most esteemed and prestigious people would be the last – but also because the last ones were those on good ground and those with a good heart in the parable?

Soft footfalls caused him to look up and he cast a thoughtful gaze at Jesus who approached him, carrying two mugs and placing one in front of him while sitting down at the bench opposite him.

"Thank you, Jesus." He softly said, taking the mug and sniffing. He smiled for a moment at the herbs he could smell, knowing that Jesus himself had brewed the tea as no one could cook tea as tasty and as calming as Jesus did – except for his mother maybe. He could smell the aniseeds, the honey and the raisins in the tea too aside from other herbs.

"Do not fill your heart with worry." Jesus said and he cast a questioning gaze at the man – who had, again, known his thoughts. "You _are_ indeed one of the last while you will be one of the first. But do not fill your heart with worries – or there will be no room for all the love and for all the greatness of our Father's words in it. What is wrong, James?" Jesus then asked and his face grew serious again.

"When did you plan on telling us that you'd leave – that you'd leave _soon_, I mean?" He asked, and even though he knew that his tone of voice sounded accusing – he just couldn't help himself. "You've told the officers, at the feast."

"What exactly had been my words, James?" Jesus asked, seriously, watching him expectantly and he sighed. Of course Jesus knew _exactly_ what his words had been, he didn't suffer from a weak mind, after all, nor did he suffer from old age, and he did remember such things very well, but it was like always – the other wanted _him_ to say them as he had understood them. Not to mention that he surely would not give him a direct answer – he rarely did. If there was someone who was a Master when it came to speaking in riddles, then it was Jesus. Taking a sip of the tea he closed his eyes, allowing the herbs to do their work and to calm him.

"You said: 'I go unto him that sent me. Ye shall seek me, and shall not find me and where I am thither ye cannot come'." He said after having opened his eyes to look at Jesus.

He wasn't sure if the other man was alright or not. Sometimes he thought that – Jesus looked old, older than he was. That he looked sad and worried, tired. But at other times he was sure that no, Jesus didn't look old, he looked young, younger than he should look, much younger and surely not tired but full of life and energy – and not worried either but full of confidence, trust and unconcern.

"I also said: 'Yet, a little while am I with you'." Jesus answered, taking a sip of the tea himself. "_Then_ I go unto him that sent me. My time has not yet come, I told you so, a week ago when my brothers asked me to go to the feast."

"But you _will_ go." He complained. "And I cannot help thinking that you will go too soon. A little while is just that, after all – a little while. I love you, Jesus, and I don't want you to go, and especially not under the circumstances which you have foretold."

"And yet, it will be necessary." His Lord answered – no, his _friend_ answered.

Jesus had long ago stopped being his Lord. Not really. Somehow he would _always_ remain his Lord, because he actually _was_ just that, his Lord, his Master. But at the same time, he also had become his brother and his friend, an important friend, most likely the most important friend in his life.

_'And yet, it will be necessary.'_ – Maybe, maybe not. He didn't know and it was not his place to judge on that.

break … ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ … line

**Viewpoint of Jesus**

Watching James he thought back to the time when he had asked him to become his follower, he and John.

The two had been at work with Zebedee, their father when he had passed them, by the see of Galilee. They had been in their boat, but not fishing. They had been mending their nets and knowing that these two would be fierce follower of him despite their boldness and their daring, or maybe even just _because_ of their boldness and their daring, he had called them, just like he'd called Peter and Andrew.

But well, of course the following of the sons of Thunder wouldn't be as quiet as the following of Peter and Andrew had been. Peter and Andrew had just left their nets and had followed him, but when James and John had done the same, well, thunder had followed them, in form of Zebedee, their father.

**Flashback**

_"What are you two doing?" Zebedee asked when James and John left the boat that was near the shore and waded through the shallow water towards the land – and knowing what would come he took a deep breath to calm his own nerves, casting a quick glance at the sky and asking his Father to give him strength as – just because he was God's son, it didn't mean that he had not his own failures and his own fears he had to fight with._

_"We're called." James called back to his father who was still sitting in the boat, who was not really grasping the situation yet._

_"You have work to do!" Zebedee started thundering. "Come back here, now is not the time to rest and talk to people, we need to get the nets ready before noon. In the evening it will be too late to start fishing!"_

_"We have other work to do now." John answered back, already reaching the land, as if it were the most normal thing in the world – being called away from his work to leave his father. "Tell our mother that we love her, will you, father?"_

_"What __… __you are not serious!" Zebedee now thundered even more, getting to his feet and letting the net fall to the ground while watching his sons departing. But well, he should have known that Zebedee wouldn't sit back and watch quietly when his sons abandoned him and their boat. It was their family business after all, it was what the family was living off of, after all. _

_"You two get back here this instant!" Zebedee ordered, called at the top of his lungs actually while gesturing with his arms, leaving the boat himself and wading through the water towards the shore. "Have you not obligations to your elders? Did your mother not teach you to honour your father and your mother? Who's that lout even? And what dealings do you have with him? And you, who're you to call away my sons from their work? From their family? Have not I raised them and fed them for years?"_

**End flashback**

Well, he had gone on walking, hoping that Zebedee wouldn't abandon his boat to follow them, but he should have known that he would.

"What right do you have, Lord, to call my sons away from me?" Zebedee had asked him then, taking his arm to stop him walking and he _had_ stopped, looking at the older man. "Who raised them and taught them the law if not I? What right do you have now to take away my beloved sons?"

Well, not only had it been a very humanly and a very fatherly thing to do, trying to get his sons back and out of the hands of someone who seemed to be lurking them away from their right way, from their family and from their family business, but also had it been what the Jewish Law would expect any father to do – Zebedee had just been trying to keep his sons safe, after all, because surely the man had not realized who he was and what his sons' future work would be – and how should he even?

"You have raised them well, Zebedee, but they have much more important work to do now. But do not worry, because you will not suffer any needs or poverty, nor will your wife or any other family member with you." He had answered the man. Of course, Zebedee hadn't been happy with his answer and he had followed them for some time more, had left the boat with the few hired men, trying to get his sons back into their family business, gesturing and arguing, but well – he had been angry, after all, and rightfully so, and he had been livid, loud and unrelenting – thunderous. Well, and James and John, they were not so unlike their father, they were just that, bold and daring, and sometimes loud and livid … well, the sons of thunder.

_All_ of his disciples, they were not a bunch of docile lambs but quite a fierce, rough and sometimes unruly bunch, and he was not here to tame them but to teach them, and to prepare them for their own ministry. But they were loyal and they loved him deeply – and they did their best to follow him, and he didn't expect more of them than the best of them anyway.

"I will not be lost to you when I am gone." He said to James.

James had been still and reserved since that evening in the temple, but he had hoped that the man would come to him and speak to him by his own – what he hadn't done, something that was not normal for James and if he had to be honest, then he had started to worry himself. James always spoke his mind, always telling him – sometimes even in anger – what bothered him, something he valued most concerning his friend and he was a bit worried that he hadn't done so, and wouldn't do so, this time – and a friend James had become over the past two years.

He always tried to love all his disciples the same, to not making any differences just like his mother had never made any differences. His mother had loved all of them the same. She had never preferred him just because he was Jesus, just because he was the son of God – but she had treated the others with as much love, had provided them with as much time and clothes, and had taught them as much as she had him. And now he tried to do the same with his disciples – and he had been forced to learn that this was not an easy thing, because he really loved James, John and Peter the most and he kept them closer than his other disciples.

"You are not only my disciple, you are not only a person I am teaching – you are my brother, you are my friend, and I will always be with you." He said, knowing that this was the truth. "Like Moses and Abraham were not left behind by God, neither will you be left behind by me."

"Just forget it, Jesus." James said and he could hear by the other man's voice that he was close to tears, not to mention by the choice of his words, which startled him more than he liked it.

"Does the pain of a thorn in the lion's paw stop hurting because he closes his eyes and tries to forget it?" He asked, hoping to make it clear to James – he needed to face his fears and his hurts, the mental hurts as much as his physical hurts.

"No." James admitted, taking a deep breath and he nodded at the other man. "But your example doesn't make it any better. You will go away and I _hate_ the thought of it!"

"If you look towards my departure with hate and anger in your heart, then this anger will one day fall on my person itself and you will feel anger because I left you behind, never mind how deep in your heart I will remain." He said. "And you are my disciples, you are my first followers. On you all men will build their belief and their faith, their trust. If one of my first followers starts hating me, then this one will be the ground stone for those who come after. Do not hate the thought of my departure, look towards to it with serenity, with peace in your mind and you will be peaceful – because not your will needs to be done, but our Father's."

"You are right, of course." James sighed but he could see that the other wasn't really happy with it. "But it isn't easy. You don't know the pain I feel in my heart at the thought alone."

"Of course it isn't easy." He answered, calmly. "But you will grow with it – and I _do_ know the pain you feel in your heart, James."

"Then, will it get better?" His disciple asked and he took a deep breath, reaching out to place his hand on the other man's arm.

"Oh, James." He sighed. "I would happily tell you that – yes, it will get better, but truth is that it will be a long time until then while this pain will never go away completely. It will get better with time, yes, but you will always feel it – and it will always sting."

Watching Peter, Andrew and Mark leaving the house with mugs of tea of their own, Mark laughing at something Andrew had just said and walking backwards, he smiled. That boy was a handful, he had to admit that, but he liked his youthful energy, his childlike behaviour and the openness of someone who trusted blindly.

"Mark!" He called the boy who turned and then came over, the smile on the young face widening. "You won't find a small rabbit hopping backwards, because he has no eyes on the back of his head and could therefore end up being eaten by a snake."

"There's no snake big enough that could eat me." The boy smiled at him.

"No, but you could stumble over one as you won't see it." He answered, knowing that it wasn't the first time, and that it wouldn't be the last time the boy would walk backwards either. "Like that branch on the floor there, over which you would have stumbled had you not changed direction. And then the snake would bite you because you have disturbed it. It is late, little one, won't you go to bed? These two are no company for a young lad such as you anyway. They have only mischief in their heads."

"And what is it what this one here has in his head?" James asked, winking at the boy who wrinkled his nose at the term 'little one', but he could see that the sadness remained just below the surface of the smile on his disciple's face.

"I have no mischief in my head." Mark said, his eyes large on James. "I'll go to bed after I have finished my tea. You know, mother has told me that the herbs she is using for her tea are the same as you are using, and that she has learned from you how to prepare them, Jesus. She said that I am able to sleep easier ever since."

**Flashback**

_Approaching the young mother he touched her shoulder, looking down into the by now clearly unnerved face calmly. _

_"Give him here." He softly said, taking the nurseling child._

_He had come here just this afternoon to visit Mary and her husband. He had heard of the birth of their child more than a month ago after the news had travelled from Jerusalem to Nazareth, but it had taken him some time to prepare for his leave as he at the same time had prepared to leave for a while and to wander the lands. He'd had to settle a few things first to make sure that his mother and his younger siblings would be well cared for during his absence and he had needed to make sure that the house too would be looked after while he was gone. James was old enough to care for some things by now and to help with things, but he was not old enough to care for everything alone. _

_Well, he would stay a few days with the young family before he took his leave and both had been happy because of his visit. They had enjoyed a nice dinner and then Aristopolos and he had started discussing his probable routes while Mary had prepared her young child, Mark, for bed – over an hour ago now while the suckling child had been crying fiercely and with more patience than his mother apparently was ready to show tonight._

_Taking the child he started walking a few steps and then went outside the back door to step on the small yard behind the house, enjoying the summer evening, all the while rubbing the baby's belly. He had enough experience with small children, seeing that he had younger siblings and he'd always been eager to help his mother with them, fascinated by the small little fingers and the small little noses. Later on he had learned to appreciate the keen perception of any small children. _

_"Now, what is troubling you, little one?" He asked the child. _

_Of course the boy wouldn't understand his words. _

_When James had been born he'd been a young child himself, and one day he had talked to James like he would talk to his parents or the other children in their neighbourhood, but James apparently hadn't understood his words. He had told his mother this new discovery and she had answered him that, of course, the baby was too small to understand but he would grow in not only body, but in mind and heart too. However, he soon had learned that often it helped if a baby just heard someone's voice, and that it actually was important for the baby to learn and to understand. _

_"I will tell your mother how to make a special tea that will help you, little one." He said, enjoying the life the little bundle in his arm radiated. "And even though it will be a while, next time I visit, I will bring a few herbs that will do good to you too."_

**End flashback**

Well, the baby boy had soon after fallen asleep, even though he had done nothing different than Mary had. It had been just the sound of his foreign and deeper voice, rather than Mary's, that had caused the infant to concentrate on it curiously instead of continuing with his crying – no reason to work miracles here.

"Tell your mother that I am glad it helped." He answered. "What have you learned in school today?" He then asked.

It had been several years until he had been able to visit Mary and Aristopolos again and Mark had been old enough to go to his bed by himself by then, but like he had promised, he had brought herbs and spicery.

"We have learned how to translate a text into Greek." Mark answered, wrinkling his nose. "I don't like Greek."

"I know that you don't, Mark." He answered. "What happens if you meet people on the street and you don't know where exactly Athens lies?" He then asked.

"I don't know." The boy shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe they would explain it to me."

"Most likely." He answered. "If it is in Greek however, you won't understand them if they explained it to you as you have not learned it because you don't like the language. What happens if you meet people on the street and you are unable to tell them how old all of them would be together?"

"Nothing would happen, because no one would ask such a stupid thing." The boy answered.

"Most likely not." He admitted, smiling at the boy.

"Anyway, I can do arithmetic and if my mother sends me to the market, then I always get what she needs and I never need more money than she gave me." The boy shrugged his shoulders and he nodded his head.

"Even having enough money left so that you can buy some of the sweet bread, haven't you, lad?" Peter asked, chuckling and patting the boy's shoulder.

"Sure, but mother never forbade me." The boy answered, looking up at Peter.

"You did nothing wrong, Mark." He said. "I just want to show you what happens if you meet people on the street and you are unable to understand them – for example if they need your help and ask you the way?" He then asked. "You would not even be able to help them, but you wouldn't be able to ask them where Athens even lies either."

"Alright." The boy sighed. "I don't like Greek anyway. And I _know_ where Athens lies."

"Of course you know, little one." He smiled at the boy. "You are very well educated after all. It is important that you are able to speak your mind, Mark. Your father was a wise man and Peter is too. You are following both in your studies and they both can be very proud of you."

"I _am_ proud of the boy." Peter said, sitting down beside the boy and ruffling the wild hair.

"He will have a better position one day than you have, Peter." John laughed, winking at the boy.

"I do hope so!" Peter answered, not offended by the joke. "After all I am responsible for his education. What trust Mary has set in me by giving the lad over to me for his education I hope I won't disappoint her in that."

"'Esus, 'Esus! 'Ames!" Was heard and a small boy hopping up and down at the other side of the low stone wall called up his attention and he smiled at the little lad.

"Nathaniel." He said, waving the young child over who immediately obeyed and climbed over the low stone wall by just leaning with his upper body over it and then simply letting himself falling off the wall on the other side before scrambling to his little feet and running towards him. "You should be in bed." He said, knowing that it wasn't the boy's fault. "And you are wearing your shirt the wrong way 'round."

Nathaniel was the son of Rosemary, a woman who had lost her husband during an accident when the boy had been but a year old. The young man had fallen off the roof of one of the houses in the upper city when adding a second floor to the house, something that wasn't a common thing. Most houses in Jerusalem had one floor only, but Nathaniel's father had gotten the order to build a second floor to the house of the public secretary and while doing his work the man had slipped and fallen off the roof – people said he was dead immediately. Rosemary had gotten a small sum from the palace, again, not a common thing, but the sum hadn't lasted long anyway. It had been just enough to buy food for a few weeks and clothes for the boy after he'd had his next growth spurt and the widow's mite was barely enough for one person, let alone a mother with a small child that needed food and clothing. But it had been a help until the young mother had found a job – and now she worked at several eateries around the palace – and overtime so, mostly in the evenings.

In other words Nathaniel often was alone. Rosemary's neighbours were looking after the boy every now and then, but of course, a five year old was not as stupid as most people thought he would be, and so there often was a hole the child could slip through to get away – and most of the times he ended up right here.

"Come here, you little imp." John said, catching the boy before he reached him and the lad happily allowed John to take him and to sit him on his lap, ignoring his comment about the – _'wrong way 'round shirt'_, as well as his comment about the boy needing to be in bed at such a late hour – with a squeaky "'Ohn, 'Ohn!", and he shook his head, his eyebrow lifted at the small lad as generally a five year old was able to pronounce names like Jesus, James or John correctly, but Nathaniel somehow had never managed and he just didn't say the first letter at all. It was one of the things that was – clearly Nathaniel – like the shirt which he was wearing the wrong way 'round whenever he saw him.

Happily Nathaniel leaned against John's chest, snuggled close while John ran his hand over the lad's back, and then the boy closed his eyes, most likely listening to the man's strong heartbeat, and he knew, it would only take a few moments until the boy had fallen asleep and then John would bring him over to his house and put him to bed – it wouldn't be a first time after all.

For a moment he frowned upon the picture of a boy with black hair and dark brown, nearly black, eyes, a scrawny little child that wore strange clothing. The picture was gone too soon before he could see more, and not sure where this feeling came from but knowing that he could trust his instincts, knowing that he could trust his feelings, he took a deep breath – because two of the kinds like Nathaniel, added to Mark, that could become rather difficult.

Getting off the bench he inclined his head towards James with a pointed look, making sure that the other had understood his earlier words, that he felt better, but the smile James regarded him with wasn't a happy smile and he knew, he would need to have another discussion with him.

He went to the back part of the large yard, the place for privacy they had created, and there he sat down at one of the stones, allowing his mind to wander and to clear his thoughts.

"You have set a lot of expectations in me, Father." He then started talking with his Father in Heaven. "And a lot of responsibility too. I don't fear the responsibility, you know that, and I know that it is a necessity, and always was, but I fear I could disappoint you. How am I to meet all the expectations you have set in me? While at the same time I am living with the same failures and with the same weaknesses as do all my brothers and sisters here on earth? And so I ask you to help me with this, Father, I ask you to help me with meeting your expectations. You have sent me here, and I ask for your help."

He ran his hand over his face for a moment before taking a sip from the tea.

This was his greatest fear.

Not that he might be hated, and not that he might be killed one day because he knew that he just _had_ to die, and it wasn't too long until then. Not even that he would lose his friends – no, but to disappoint his Father. That was his greatest fear. He was as human as were all other men on earth, after all, and that he wouldn't be able to meet his Father's expectations through this human touch, that he would – that he would answer to his weaknesses in not only his last weeks and months but especially in his last hours, that was his greatest fear.

Of course he trusted his Father, that he would stand by his side in his hardest time, but that didn't mean that he feared less.

"Have I not always stood by your side?" He heard his father asking and smiling he looked up. "And have I not always been proud of you, Son?"

**Flashback**

_Slowly he went into the water, like all the other people which had gathered here, which were waiting until it was their turn, patiently, and like all the people which were waiting for friends while allowing the sun and the wind to dry their hair and clothes after it had been their turn, and for a moment he could feel the peace of the situation itself. _

_There was not the same hectic as was in Jerusalem, or as was in Nazareth, in one of the other cities. It was peaceful and it was calm, as if time itself stood still at this place while only the soft sound of the wind was heard, rustling through the grass, while only the soft sound of the water was heard, flowing along in its bed, and the soft whispers of the people waiting at the shore. These sounds were only disturbed by the soft sounds his movements caused the water to make, but other than that, there was peace and calmness, the sun sparkling at the surface of the water, and he could understand why John had chosen this place._

_"It's been a while, Jesus." John said when he approached him, smiling at him with real happiness in his eyes._

_"It's been indeed." He answered. "But at least, this isn't the Sea of Galilee but a river only."_

_"And you can swim this time." John answered with a wink at him, surely remembering the same incidence as did he. _

_It had been the summer in his ninth year of life, and their fathers had taken them to the sea, John's father, and his father, Joseph. They had been playing near the shore, where the water wasn't too deep, and they'd had a lot of fun, like any other children had too while their fathers had been near to catch fish so that they would have something to eat in the evening. John and he had been playing in the sea and John – who seemed to be born for the water – had gone deeper into the sea than he should, and he, Jesus, he had followed. _

_In the end John had pulled him out of the water after he'd nearly drowned, and the day after his father had taught him how to swim so that such couldn't happen a second time._

_For a moment he looked up to his Father, thanking him that he had always looked out for him, giving him a friend at his side who could not only swim but was a water bug even, giving him a mother who had great wisdom which she could have taught him, and giving him a worldly father who could teach him a lot of craftsmanship things. _

_"I doubt that there will be the need for that." He answered, looking back at John, his dark eyes steadily on the other man who smiled at him mischievously. _

_"And I doubt that this here is correct." John said seriously, his eyes narrowed at him. "In real it is me, needing to be baptized by you – and you come to me for this?"_

_"Allow it now, John, because this is the fitting way for us to fulfil all righteousness." He answered and grasping John's hand he closed his eyes, trusting the other man blindly to dunk him into the water – and a moment later he could feel John's hand on his back while the man with his other hand dunked him into the water. _

_For a moment time seemed to stand still before he broke through the surface of the water again and stood before John – and then they all could hear a voice, deep and rich, saying "this is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased"._

_Looking up for a moment he was – speechless, because never before had his Father in heaven said such a thing openly, to the world – and to the world it had been – and his chest felt like exploding with happiness. Looking over at John for a moment he could see the same happiness in the other man's dark eyes, and without a word he embraced John for a moment, not only to deepen their friendship, and to show his love, but to share this one moment with him too. _

_His Father, God, was well pleased in him. _

**End flashback**

It hadn't been the first time that his Father in heaven had shown him how pleased he was, and neither had it been the last time, of course not, but it had been the first time that he'd done so openly and to the entire world even – and he had been as happy about it, as he was now, because his Father was proud of him, again.

And his Father would be with him, he would take care of him, and he would make sure that in the end he would be alright, like he always had done, and like he always would do.

It wasn't a solution his disciples were happy about, because there was no solution which would make them happy. He had to die, never mind them, but he felt better anyway, he felt alright.

He knew what was to come, of course. And of course he was scared of it – but for the moment, he felt better, for the moment he felt alright – and when his time had come, then he would ask for his Father's support anew.

He had been unsure about his disciples too, about how they would take it if there was someone walking towards them and telling them that they should follow him, that they could live in forgiveness from now on if only they followed him with all their mind and heart? But despite his first unsureness, he had found a way to make them see and again, his Father had been very happy when he had managed this, to make them see that – no longer was the message to be restricted to the house of Israel but that it was to be declared to all people. The word of the Kingdom would be his proclamation, his gospel and so the truth wouldn't be limited to the now Old Testament anymore, and so he was the first sower, teaching his disciples so that he could be working through them, spreading the gospel throughout the world while others would follow – being the next sowers, the next disciples.

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* * *

**To be continued**

**Next time in ****… and sit a while with me …**

_Back to a school and to a time during the Second World War – and the arrival of the students _…

**Added author's note**

thank you for reading – and yes, I would appreciate it if you took the time to review this chapter too, thank you …

Also I wish to say at this point that – of course I could, and maybe even should, change the speech between Jesus and his disciples to a form of old English, or rather middle age English – but I doubt that you'd really enjoy the story in this case … I think, you'll agree with me that – the other way 'round it will at least be easier to read …


	4. let the battle begin

**Title:**

… and sit a while with me …

**Author:**

Mrs. Trabi

**Timeframe:**

1942 and 29 A.C.

**Summary:**

AU/Realization can be a hard thing and when it hits Hereweald Hrothgar, he's not too happy about it. Through an accident, he and his student, Jamie Novak, fall back to the year 29 A.C. to meet Jesus of Nazareth and His disciples – what will he, the dark and tough man from a different time learn from a man that knows him better than he knows himself? And what will the child learn from a man his parents have always said won't care about him because he has no worth?

**Disclaimer: **

Well … I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words nor the persons, places, or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies … I'm just borrowing things from that book, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story … I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

**Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

**Author's Notes:**

Here, I'd like to say that this story isn't meant to discredit the Bible, God, His word, Jesus, or anything we believe in. God is and remains our first and most important priority – or at least that it is what should be. I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult.

I will be trying to handle the subject as delicately and as seriously as possible, I promise, and I do hope that not only I won't be flamed for this, but that also I'll find one or another of my readers who'll gain a new view and understanding … and that you'll like this one as much as you do my other stories, even though this concerns a different – and in my opinion much more important – book … thanks …

**Warning:**

Story will contain references to child abuse.

Child abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever - of once having been abused, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

* * *

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**Previously in … and sit a while with me …**

_Yawning he closed his eyes for a moment._

_He would go to bed early tonight. Tomorrow the students would arrive and he would have to deal with the summer flu, with hay fever, with other allergies and of course with other, much worse things – at least knowing Hereweald and Hendrik. Another thing the two of them had in common, contrary to the other teachers at this school, they cared about the students, __really__ cared, even though Hereweald would never admit it, not even to himself, and he would kill __anyone__ who just suggested the __idea__ of him caring about anything or anyone._

_Once he'd seen the man handling one of his younger students who'd gotten hurt during a baseball game, the Novak boy, Elliot Novak, and Hereweald had not only held the boy so that he'd been able to care for the hand the boy had broken while falling on the base and trying to catch himself, but he'd also comforted the boy – something he'd never ever before had seen the man doing. And nothing else had it been, Hereweald even patting the boy's back and stroking his hair while giving away nonsense words._

_After that he'd of course right out denied that he'd ever done such a thing and he'd threatened him with a lot of very unpleasant things should he accuse him of such an evil thing like comforting someone ever again – or even dare to tell anyone about what had happened – because to comfort someone was reserved for the weak and for the idiots, for the narrow minded of which he was neither. Of course he'd never told anyone – but that hadn't been necessary anyway, because enough students had seen it – and the coach too._

_Hereweald hadn't been able to do anything about the coach – but he remembered that back then a lot – and really a lot – of students had been in detention with the Chemistry Professor, and for weeks so. Whenever there had been words whispered about how the most hated professor at this school had comforted a fifth grade student, the entire baseball team was found in detention again, and soon the rumours had stopped and the incident had been forgotten._

_Yes, Hereweald Hrothgar had his own ways of ensuring that his bad reputation would never die at this academy._

… **and sit a while with me …**

**Part one – of teachers and pupils**

**Chapter four - Let the battle begin**

**September 14****th**** 1942, Monday – Hathaway Academy**

**Viewpoint of Hendrik**

Standing by the window of his office, his blue eyes lingered on the boy when he watched him slowly and unsurely walking along the path, and even though he had never seen him, he knew very well who he was – Jamie Novak, because he was the walking image of his brother, Elliot Novak, when _he_ had been that age. Casting a quick glance at the distant black limousine that had stopped at the other side of the large gates which stood open widely, he frowned at the realization that Carmichael Novak had not changed from the day he had brought Elliot here – on the contrary. Back then the man had at least accompanied Elliot through the gates and to the headmaster's office, while Jamie Novak was on his own and the black car was just driving away. No one had gotten out of the limousine except of the child, no one was going with the boy, and no one seemed to care, most likely it wasn't even Carmichael or Michelle Novak bringing their child but their chauffeur.

Not to mention – where was Elliot?

It was the first day of the school year and Elliot was not with his brother – who was clearly too young to attend Hathaway to begin with anyway, and who was too young to being sent alone and he wondered, why had Garcia even permitted the boy to attend here?

Alright, with his – _barely_ – nine years the boy had learned how to read and write, or how to solve basic arithmetic problems, but surely had he not perfected any of these abilities yet after two years of school only.

Well, Hereweald would be – very happy about it and he prepared himself for handling a very grumpy Chemistry Professor for the next few weeks.

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**Viewpoint of Hereweald**

Professor Hrothgar on the other hand – even as _he_ clearly didn't care about why the boy would come alone, without being brought by his parents – was dealing with two overlaying emotions, anger and worry. Anger at a child he didn't know because he knew that the boy would cause trouble at every turn he would take, and worry about a child he was missing, about Elliot Novak who wasn't with his brother. But well, of course the younger of the two would be brought by a chauffeur even, important to his parents as he was, while Elliot maybe was just about to arrive with the train and the bus.

Standing by the window of his own office, his dark eyes lingered on the boy who now took a few unsure steps towards the stone stairs that led to the entrance hall of the large building, his dark eyes filled with loathing.

Jamie … Novak.

**Flashback**

_The soft flickering of the flames in the fireplace of his private study felt calming and he watched the dancing flames while he allowed his mind to wander. It was the beginning of September and surely it was not necessary to start a fire yet, he'd done anyway, because he knew that the dancing flames would calm him, and because he knew that the warmth would be welcomed by not only his bones but his mind too. It was the beginning of September, and tomorrow the school would be filled with students once again. _

_The students._

_Hereweald sighed._

_Tomorrow evening the peace and quiet of the summer holidays would be over and he would have to deal with new fifth-grades, something he was so very much looking forward to. For a moment he sneered at his own sarcasm. The fifth grade students were the worst in general. The sixth grade students already knew how to avoid him best and the older they got the more peace he had from them. _

_The only students he did not mind teaching were the eleventh and the twelfth grade students. They had finally gathered some sense in their heads and seeing that from tenth grade upwards a teacher could refuse a student – well, he had to teach only those of them who showed an exceptional or at least an excellent performance, those who really wanted to learn. _

_And this year he would have to deal with Jamie Novak, Elliot's brother – Jamie Bloody Novak, a third grade. He'd prefer even as idiot stupid little brats as Julian Fitzgerald and Bryan McKinney who would be attending Hathaway this year, and who both surely would be as stupid as their fathers had been. _

_Fitzgerald and McKinney Senior, both had been students at Hathaway Academy during their youth, and even though they had been two or three grades above him, he anyway knew them – and therefore he knew that their intelligence wasn't too – developed. They had always managed to get what they wanted with violence rather than with thinking and he was sure that this hadn't changed over the years._

_And he was also sure that their sons wouldn't be any different. _

_And then there was the Novak brat, of course. In other words – no, his only gleam of hope for the year was Elliot who would be back too, and his godson who would attend this year, but except of that – no, he did not really look forward to this year of teaching idiot little snots._

**End flashback**

So, Elliot's brother had arrived at Hathaway – and he looked like his brother too, Hrothgar noticed with a curl of anger in his upper lip. He – contrary to every other teacher at Hathaway who would fuss over their youngest student – did _not_ look forward to having the brat in his lessons – nor in his house. Yet, he wouldn't be able to avoid it, now, would he?

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**Viewpoint of Jamie Novak**

Jamie Novak didn't notice all the expectation in the gazes he received from the different tables scattered through the room when he entered the canteen for dinner and lingered in the doorway for a moment until Mr. Garcia pointed at the table in the far right hand corner. He only tried to concentrate on setting one foot in front of the other, taking step for step, slowly, and to reach the table without stumbling. But then he stopped, in the middle of the room, unsure of what would come next, and even though he now noticed that everyone in the canteen seemed to be staring at him, he wasn't able to take another step forwards.

The headmaster, Mr. Garcia, had told him that he had to be at the canteen at seven, and if he knew _one thing_, then he knew how to read the clock. His mother had taught him how to read the clock and his mother could be – quick to anger. Well, and then Mr. Garcia had told him that he had to be acknowledged by his Head of House, by Professor Hrothgar. A very complicated name, he thought, but it would be easy for _him_ anyway to remember it, because Elliot had told him about Professor Hrothgar this summer.

This summer had been different than all the other summers before.

This summer his father had not given him sweets and his mother hadn't told him how much she loved him either.

Not that they would do so during the year, they never did, always only during the summer holidays when Elliot was at home. He didn't know why they would hate him all year long and then love him during the summer holidays, but he had always been so happy then, even though he had soon learned that it was short lived anyway – and even though he'd always had a bad conscience towards Elliot, because they seemed to hate his older brother during the holidays as much as they hated _him_ during the year.

And sure, after the holidays they were always even angrier at him than they had been before, even though he had never understood why they would be angrier after the holidays than before them, either, but he had anyway so much enjoyed their love for those short few weeks.

However, this summer holidays when Elliot had come home, they had brought him down to his cellar too and they had locked both of them up down there. Not that he minded, he mostly lived down there anyway, over and over again, whenever he was bad, and he was often bad, but Elliot had been startled – and he too, because normally they wouldn't lock the door. They wouldn't allow him out of the cellar, but they wouldn't lock the door during the year, only if he'd been _really_ bad, but now they had done so this summer holidays too.

Of course he had a room in the house, but he was sure that he had been more often down in the cellar than in his room. His room was a large room, and with an adjoining bathroom even. It was up the large staircase in the entrance hall of the house, and then he had to go right and along the wide balustrade – his father's and his mother's studies were there, and the rooms from one or another servant. The guest rooms were to the other side of the balustrade, to the left after having climbed the stairs.

However, he had then to go through a large door that led to the east wing, and then it was the forth door to his left down the corridor. Elliot had his room just beside his, it was the third door to his left, but he'd never ever seen Elliot in there, because – because Elliot had been at school during the year, and when he'd come home for the summer holidays – he was sure that his parents had put Elliot into the cellar then, because whenever he'd been back in the cellar _after_ the summer holidays, then he'd found traces of his brother living there, then he'd found a paper here which he hadn't left, or a cup there, or a pencil.

And he'd always been back to his cellar rather soon after the holidays, because his mother used to put him down there if he'd done something bad, or if he'd not done something he should have done – or often just because she was angry at him, even though he didn't always know why she was angry at him. He was then down in the cellar for a few days before his mother let him out, and he'd gotten used to it with the time – except for the darkness, and except for the coldness when it was winter. But he didn't mind the spiders anymore, and he'd learned to play with the rats.

But then these holidays had come and his mother had put Elliot down there too, and he had learned a lot then from Elliot, _after_ his brother had gotten used to the cold and the darkness, and the spiders and the rats like he, Jamie, was. He had learned things about this school and about Professor Hrothgar and about other things too, like how to do a bit more math things than he had learned by the picture books he had in his room and in the cellar so far. Elliot had also told him that never mind what, he needed to trust Professor Hrothgar and he needed to stay at this school for as long as possible, and that he needed to be strong. Until …

"What is it, boy?" The man with the dark hair and the dark eyes who was sitting at the appointed table with the other children asked, his voice as dark as was anything on him and so – he was sure that this couldn't be Professor Hrothgar. Because Elliot would have told him, had he been so dark, wouldn't he? But it was the table Mr. Garcia had pointed at when he had come to the canteen.

Mr. Garcia had said that he would be called to Professor Hrothgar's office, but Professor Hrothgar hadn't called him, and so he had come here on his own because he had to be present here at seven. And so, well, he couldn't be sure that this was the correct table, could he? Because no one had brought him here, and because no one had shown him. It was just that, Mr. Garcia had pointed at the right hand corner and there was only _one_ table in the right hand corner.

Looking down at his hands he made sure that it was really the right hand corner.

He'd always had trouble telling his right hand from his left one, but he had a scar on his right hand, where his mother had thrown a cup at him one day when she'd been angry because he hadn't cleaned the table quickly enough, and he had cut his hand when he'd cleaned the floor from the shards afterwards. He'd been kneeling at the floor to pick up the shards just when his mother had given him a kick in the back and he'd fallen forwards, and when he'd looked next there had been a shard sticking out of his hand.

It hadn't been the first time that he'd had a cut somewhere and so he'd known what to do. He had finished picking up the shards, trying to _not_ look at the shard that was sticking out of his hand, and then he'd gone to the bathroom where he had pulled it out. He'd cried, and he'd really felt ill after that, but he'd known that his mother wouldn't help him with that, that she'd rather scream at him that it was his own fault because he hadn't done his job and had therefore caused her anger and had made her throwing the cup. He had taken the dressing to cover the cut, and then he'd continued with cleaning the table.

So – it _was_ the right hand, he knew it, because his crying had gotten him into even more trouble and had earned him another few days in the cellar, because his mother "couldn't hear his damn crying" anymore. But well, even though it weren't his right hand, it had to be the correct table anyway, because Mr. Garcia had pointed at it, and it was the only table with a free place to sit also. But maybe the free place on the bench was for another child who hadn't arrived yet? Maybe he had no place in any house here?

And Mr. Garcia had said that Professor Hrothgar needed to acknowledge him, and that it was important that he acknowledged him as his student for being in his new house, but Professor Hrothgar still hadn't yet. He looked over at the man who was sitting at the table.

What would he do if he didn't have a place at this school, he wondered, feeling the panic rising in his chest. What if they had decided that he couldn't come here because he was too young? Elliot had told him that he would be too young, after all. But he couldn't go back home. He couldn't go back home to his father. Elliot had made sure that he could come here, that his mother would send him, and even though Elliot had told him that he didn't know what house he would be in, Elliot had made sure that he could leave home and now …

Year for year, as far as he could remember, had they taught him that he was worth nothing, and year for year they had punished him for the slightest mistakes he had made, and they had always found one thing or another they could blame him for. And now – now he was standing here, about to … about to attend a boarding school that would keep him away from home, far away from home and his parents, a place where he could feel safe. Elliot had said so.

Maybe this was just a dream and at any moment he would wake up down in the cellar. He would wake up and he would be at home, and …

They had been able to smell the food, even down there in the cellar, but no one had come to let them out, because their mother had forgotten them. That was what Elliot had said. That their mother just never thought of getting them for lunch, or for breakfast. Their father had come to the cellar to let them out in the evening, sometimes. And then he'd taken them to the adjoining dojo where they had to help in the training of … of a – _'special training thingy'_ or something like that, a group of five guys their father couldn't teach during the day. And it had to happen in secret too. They had to prepare things and they had to be quick about it. And then they had to wait for new orders, until they could put the things away and get other things. What he hated most was, if their father used them to show the other guys how one thing or another was done, because they always had new bruises after that and Elliot had even had a bone broken, and maybe even more than once. At least Elliot had told him, later, when they'd been back in the cellar.

They had gotten dinner from their father if he hadn't been too angry at them then, but if they hadn't been good, then they hadn't gotten dinner. On the contrary, then the only thing they had gotten had been a beating before they had been locked back in the cellar. And sometimes their father had been so angry that he had thrown them down there without allowing them to use the bathroom even.

Shuddering he remembered the dreadful, dark and cold place where they had been hungry, and cold, and scared. He had often cried, because he'd been scared and because he'd been in pain, and because he'd wet himself, but Elliot had always been there. At least always during the summer holidays and that was all that was important, all the dark nights before didn't count, only that Elliot had always been there during the holidays, until …

"Would you finally come here, boy, or do you need an extra invitation?" The dark man hissed at him angrily and quickly he obeyed and took another step towards the table and the empty place while listening to his own wild pounding heart, unsure of what to do next and for a moment he dared an unsure and questioning gaze at the black clad man sitting at the head of the table, unmoving, with an expression impossible to read while his black eyes seemed to cut through him physically. He even could feel the anger and the hate the man radiated, physically.

When the silence became too much and Jamie wished to just vanish, wished he wasn't there, wished the stony floor beneath his feet would just open up and devour him – finally this man nodded his head at the bench with a pointed look at him and slowly Jamie sat down.

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**Viewpoint of Hereweald**

There had been some whispered comments when the boy had entered the hall because surely, none of them had seen a student at this school that was so small, not to mention that there weren't many new students this year anyway, but now the whispers were gone and silence had erupted within the canteen, a silence so heavy – it was nearly unbearable.

Hereweald Hrothgar watched the Novak boy as he slowly and hesitantly moved over to their table, his dark eyes never leaving the small and slightly trembling figure, and he did not even listen to the speech Garcia delivered. Not that it would have made any difference if he listened or not as it was the same, as small as it was, but word for word, as each year.

He raised his left eyebrow, his head lowered to his right, when the Novak boy had made his way to his house table but did not sit down onto the bench. As if it wasn't bad enough that the younger brother from Elliot had arrived at Hathaway Academy early … no … he had to be in his house too. In HIS house!

He would be responsible for the Novak brat from now on! While at the same time he was more than just worried about where the heck _Elliot_ kept his sorry behind! He'd give the boy a good piece of his mind the moment he finally arrived, having him worrying so much! He'd have the boy over his knees! That was what he would be doing!

And why did that bloody brat not sit down but remained standing beside the bench instead? Once again lowering an unsure and questioning gaze at him? Maybe the brat was dim-witted somehow? Slow? Stupid?

With an annoyed sigh of frustration and impatience he gestured the boy to sit down.

Well, he would do his job as he did with every other student. And he would teach the brat some manners and respect. He would cast a close eye on Novak. Maybe not _all_ was lost on this Novak due to the lack of respect his father had surely taught him, spoiling the brat rotten instead. But at first he would have to take a word with Adam Goodwin, the school medic. The Novak boy was just too pale and too thin and small for his liking. He looked more like a five or six year old scarecrow than like the nine year old boy he was, even though he was _barely_ nine. Not that he cared, but he could not afford a student who was not well at all. The brat had the nerve, arriving here while being ill!

He let his gaze wander over the rest of his students. First over the elder students who already knew the table manners he expected from them … and then over the younger students which – of this he was sure – would yet have to learn and to re-learn what he expected of any students from his house because they had forgotten his expectations over the summer holidays, before his eyes came to a halt at Novak again. The brat had half-long, uncared for, black hair and Hrothgar's eyes went even colder. Was that child not even able to wash his face? And to brush his hair? Not to mention the atrocious clothes the boy was wearing!

He noticed that the bloody brat was sitting at the outmost edge of the bench, as far away from Jacob who was sitting beside him as possible without falling off the bench. He took in bent shoulders and a bowed head as well as hands that were resting in his lap.

Jacob, with his half-long but clean and well cared for bright blond hair, sitting at Novak's side with his black hair, held out his hand to greet the other boy, but Novak just gazed at it without taking the offered hand and then looked aside. What was it that he could see in his face before it quickly went blank? Hrothgar wondered. He just could not name the expression. Was it fear? Uncertainty? Shame? Even pain? He could not really tell but then … he could understand the fear, the damn brat was at a new place where he would have to live without his pampering parents and without the servants he was used to, no question – but why in heaven's name should the Novak brat feel uncertainty or shame? Or even pain? The boy surely had been pampered by his parents like a prince.

Well, maybe he recognized that _now_ he would be treated like every other student within Hathaway and no parent would come to aid and pamper him here. That he would have to bend to rules. That he was not better than the others were.

With a curl of his upper lip he noticed that the Novak brat felt even too fine for the food the other students had. He had not touched anything, not even the cup with tea that was served for dinner in the evenings. He just sat there, unmoving … _disturbingly_ unmoving … just shaking his head when Jacob asked if he weren't hungry. Hrothgar was rather used to the restless movements of children in general, as annoying as these restless movements were. Here a scratch at the nose, there a bounce with the feet and such … but surely not … a perfectly still child.

When the children were finally finished with their dinner and all the students were to leave to their respective houses, the younger students being led by the older students, Hrothgar watched his house leaving and then left himself when he was sure that his students did behave well during their departure – clearly noticing the slice of bread the Novak boy quickly had taken, had hid beneath his shirt before leaving the table together with the others. He would deal with it later, or preferably tomorrow after he had learned more about the brat.

Unlike most of his colleagues he was not one to allow any lack of manners from any student and above all not from the students of his house. They would land themselves in detention before they even would be able to count to one, and Novak would learn that stealing, even though it was only stealing food, was not acceptable, he thought while he turned to leave the main building which held the canteen, the teachers' and the headmaster's offices, and the classrooms, to walk along the narrow path that led along the masonry and towards the several houses on the campus.

Besides himself, the only other teacher who was as demanding and as strict as he was, was Hendrik VanHarkins, head of a house himself, and that was one of the reasons he did respect the other teacher and always accepted his opinions and viewpoints. Yet, even if none of the students dared to really anger VanHarkins, he probably was softer than was he. Alright – scratch that, VanHarkins was _definitely_ softer than was he, not just probably. But well, at least VanHarkins was not as cold as was he.

The other teachers, well, most of them lacked the strict hand the students needed, most of all Garcia himself who had often – much too often Hrothgar thought – a strange liking of the students that made him elide unmannerly behaviour from them without punishment, without even telling them off.

Well, he – Hereweald – would not tolerate lack of manners or respect, and he would make sure that the Novak brat was one of the first to learn this.

"You're Professor Hrothgar, the Chemistry Professor, aren't you?" Someone asked from behind and he stopped mid-step, turned to face a middle aged man.

"Indeed." He coldly answered. He was on his way to his house and he neither had the time, nor the patience and surely not the wish to hold a conversation with anyone.

"Mellard Martin." The other man said, offering his hand and he scowled. "Not Martin Mellard, but Mellard Martin, English teacher."

"Nice, and now that the introductions are done – if you excuse me, I have a house to care for." He said, already turning back to the entrance door that led to the wide staircase and the front yard of the school.

"I just wanted to ask – do you have a brother?" Martin asked and he turned back to the man, regarding him with his darkest scowl possible. "You know, I'm from Speakston, Nebraska, and you know, there's a young man that looks like you, and he's a scientist too."

"I have not and if you would now excuse me, Professor Martin, then I would like to see my house, good evening." He growled, brusquely turning towards the door and striding away from the new English Professor. Elton Moreland had been the English Professor until last year, but the man had quit during the summer holidays due to a health problem – and now they had this guy, Mellard Martin.

A brother! He!

That was absurd!

He had neither family nor friends – at least not anymore – and that was a good thing indeed!

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Just like every year he had to greet his students, and while he normally would have called them to his office, one by one – well, he'd just needed more time to get used to the little fact that he would have to deal with the younger Novak this year. And so, well, he hadn't called them during the afternoon but would just now talk to them in their common room where they would reside in the evenings anyway.

And so he entered the last house to his left hand, went through the large hall that was their dining hall and living room, knowing that he would find his students gathered there as it also served as their common room, and with a few long and swift strides he crossed the dining room area and then stood in front of the students who had gathered in the living-room area, his hands clenching the backrest of an armchair that stood in front of him, Reginald Freeman, his prefect, getting up to approach him and he gestured him to stand beside him.

For a few moments he said nothing, just looked his students over, every single one of them.

Jeremy Haynes was sitting in one of the large armchairs, his legs crossed, his arms laying comfortably at the armrests and he was answering his gaze with his own, calmly.

Marvin O'Dough and Gideon Moore were sitting at one of the sofas, together with Jimmy Bishop and Benjamin Snyder. Hrothgar noticed that Marvin and Gideon looked slightly nervous. Bishop was hard to read, yet – he guessed that the boy was alright while Benjamin Snyder had the sharp and careful gaze he always showed upon coming back from the holidays. He knew the boy's father, and so he also knew that the boy's features were much friendlier than those of his father, his eyes nearly warm.

Tyrone Yates, Nathan Ortega, and Mitchell Foley were sitting at another sofa, while Johnny Constantin was standing behind them, leaning his upper body over the backrest towards the other boys. All of them seemed to be in a good mood and in a good condition too – something he couldn't say each year, but this year they seemed to be alright and he was grateful for it. He would have a private word with them during the next few days anyway.

And last but not least, Jacob Graham and Julian Fitzgerald were sharing another armchair opposite Jeremy while Bryan McKinney was leaning over the backrest towards the other two fifth grade students and all three of them seemed to be alright too – tired, but otherwise alright and healthy.

Reginald Freeman was standing beside him, seeing that he was his prefect, together with his deputy, Johnny, and so – well, there were two students left – the two Novak brothers and one of them hadn't arrived yet.

His eyes wandered through the room and fell onto a small figure standing beside the mantelpiece, and he lifted his eyebrow in annoyance. The damn brat seemed to be too fine even to sit with the other students!

"You will find strict rules, whilst you visit Hathaway Academy." Hrothgar finally began in his usual low but strict voice, bringing down his ground rules to not only his new fifth grades, but to all of them, just to remind them again. "Hathaway is no primary school and not even a common secondary school. Hathaway is an academic institute and as such, it is a privilege being allowed to visit Hathaway. Thus I expect you to mind this privilege with outstanding respect and behaviour." Again his eyes darted from student to student.

"As you have the misfortune of being in my house …" Hrothgar finally continued. "I expect nothing less than the best behaviour from all of you – and always so."

He paused and cast another stern look over the younger students.

O'Dough, Moore and Bishop on the sofa put their heads together and started whispering.

"Would you mind to enlighten me about the importance of your conversation, Mr. O'Dough?" Hrothgar sneered coolly, his sharp eyes on the brown haired boy.

"Well, who would – by free will – be living in Castilla's house or in … _Kermit Frogman's_ … Professor Hrothgar …" The boy answered, a sneer on his face at the mention of Frogman.

"As I notice, Mr. O'Dough … " Hrothgar said, his dark eyes fixed with his stern glare at the boy and his voice was deadly calm. "… you have expanded your grammar over the holidays, and have learned some sentence structure, very good."

Again O'Dough snickered lightly by Hrothgar's – _'compliment'_.

"You should however have learned by now, Mr. O'Dough, that I will not tolerate disrespect against the other teachers." Hrothgar answered. "It is _Professor_ Castilla and it is _Professor_ Frogman. Every teacher at this academy has his own qualities and you will respect them. And therefore, if I declare you are students of _my_ house, then I only indicate to you, as my students that you are, I expect you to act like a student of mine – with outmost respect and with some sense in those little brains of yours, mind that, Mr. O'Dough." Hrothgar locked his dark eyes into the light brown ones of O'Dough until the boy cast his gaze aside and Hrothgar continued, addressing the rest of his house.

"Well, you soon will find out, that there are some rules which all of you will follow if you wish to avoid punishment like detention, extra essays to write, bad marks, or even removal from school." He drawled with a voice as cold as possible. "Your first rule is to show strength to others and loyalty to your own. I do not tolerate my students fighting one of his own house. You all have soon enough learned that the other houses avoid and fear you, even despise you, just because you are my students – what does not mean that I will change my behaviour towards other students not in my house. Therefore it is essential that you all act as one, that you can trust each other, and that you help each other. I expect you to stand your ground as one unity, for no other one will aid you with help or understanding."

Knowing that most other houses could make it really hard for his students, knowing that a lot of students from the other houses would go against his students just because they _were his students_ – it was important that they stood as one. He wasn't loved like VanHarkins was, or like Frogman, even though he wasn't unhappy about _that_. Frogman was an idiot and the students held no respect for him. He would most likely quit his job the moment he was put on one step with Frogman. No, he was hated, and therefore his students too were hated and often the subject of cruelly when other students tried to take revenge on them because they had been in detention with him.

"Your second rule is to behave politely and show respect for teachers and older students." Gazing at O'Dough again he added. "Never mind which houses they come from. I expect you to show brains and common sense in studying and in dealing with others. The younger students will ask the older ones for help in their studies should there be need, and the older students will have a watch over the younger ones to make sure that no one is left behind. Study groups will be held every evening. Curfew is at nine o'clock for the lower grade students and ten for the upper grade students."

"Your third rule is – no pain. Whenever one of you is in any pain, or else unwell, then I wish to know about it so that I can help. Should I learn that one of my students is hiding his pain from me, believe me, you will not be pleased with my reaction. I expect you to mind your health, never mind what – and that includes partaking in meals, bed time, as well as hygiene. All students have to be present on time for breakfast in the dining area of our house, as well as for lunch and dinner in the canteen. No excuses." Hrothgar continued while casting a stern glance at the Novak brat. He would not allow such ridiculous behaviour as an eating disorder, and surely not from a nine year old little snotty brat. Could the boy play his games with his parents, but surely not with him! "The shower in the bathroom upstairs has to be used every morning and every evening, as I am sure every one of you will by now have learned how to use such – and I expect you to be quick about it. Neither will I allow any disrespect of your school shirts and any other clothing – or your rooms which are upstairs." With these words he cast another stern and cold gaze at Novak who visibly flinched. He had seen the state his clothing was in – much too small and with holes and gaps in them, dirty, and – well, just intolerable. Surely a five year old would be able to care far better for his clothing than Novak did.

"Your fourth rule is – no lies." He said, glaring at the children. "I do not tolerate _any_ lies, no matter how small they are. Be honest, always, and I can assure you, you will have my help. Lie to me, and you will not like the consequences. Stand up to what you have done with responsibility, always, and I will do what I can to keep you safe to the best of my abilities. Any questions thus far?" He asked, his voice low and calm but with a cold sneer.

Hereweald Hrothgar barely raised his voice. And the older students already knew the lower his voice became, the more dangerous it was. There just was _no need_ to raise his voice. He always had been a teacher who had his students under perfect control without any efforts, without any blaring. His entire appearance made sure of that.

No one asked and Hrothgar sneered again. He knew the questions would come soon enough, at the latest when the first new students had been in trouble and in detention.

"By tomorrow morning a schedule will be made up for a conference with every student in my office during this week. Apart from this meeting I am present, and I request you to come and speak to me should there be problems, _any_ problems. As your head of house I am responsible for you, for your education and for your well being. So I expect you to address any difficulties that may occur to me. Added to this, there will be a meeting held every Saturday morning at nine o'clock right here, and I expect every lower grade student to visit this meeting – no exceptions and no excuses. Any questions now?"

Again none came and Hrothgar nodded, casting one last and severe gaze over his students.

"Then, I guess, I have made myself clear." He finished, leaving the common area without a glance back and went to his study.

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**Viewpoint of Jamie**

This evening Jamie made sure he was the first one to use the shower before every one else could do so.

He could just imagine how the rest of the students would react when seeing his scars and welts, and his bruises. Never would he allow that. No one was allowed to know. No one was to see them! He just couldn't allow it!

They would laugh at him, would call him weak, and they would taunt him that he did deserve it for being so weak. And they would ask what he had done to be beaten thus. What would he tell them? What _could_ he even tell them? That he hadn't done anything? They would not believe him and would call him a liar. But he hadn't done anything except of – sighing he realized again that, he didn't know what he had done, except of not being good enough.

He knew that he _did_ deserve all the beatings. He really did. Not because he had done anything, he never took anything without permission, not even touched anything without permission, and he never failed to be polite. He always did his best to please his parents in the hope that they would love him one day. He didn't even get into fights with other children – because there were no other children, he'd always been alone when he wasn't to do his chores, alone in either his room, or down there in his cellar.

But he did deserve them anyway. His father had said so, and his mother too, he did deserve them because he was weak. Too weak to help his father in the dojo without crying, too weak to ignore the pain and too weak to ignore the hunger he felt, too scared when he was alone in the dark cellar and too weak to take his punishments without crying, too … he was just too weak to do anything …

Not to mention the small fact that his father would beat him to death if he ever found out that he had told anyone. This group his father was teaching in the evenings was secret, and no one could know about it. So – he just had to make sure that he was the first one who took a shower, before anyone else would come in.

For a moment he flinched when the first jets of water touched the bruises and welts which were not healed yet, and he had to suppress a stifled cry of pain, had to lean against the wall for support for a moment, but then he got used to the comfortably warm water and slowly he began to nearly relax a bit, to enjoy the shower, to enjoy the chance to – closing his eyes he took a deep breath. How often had he been denied the bathroom? His father being so angry with him that he'd locked them in the cellar without allowing them to use the bathroom first? And how often had he wet himself down there? Being dirty and smelly, wishing that he could use a shower? Now he could, now he could use the shower and alone that was like a small fortune to him.

And – luckily no one came in, too.

After the shower he got dressed into his sleeping shirt and silently he crept out of the bathroom and into the corridor, tiptoeing along the long hallway he hoped he would find the rooms for the students. None of the other children had noticed him so far. They had been too busy with talking to each other and telling stories about their holidays, or with playing games.

A small sign was attached to the first door at the right hand that read _'Johnny Constantin, Reginald Freeman'_. The next door to the left hand held a sign that read _'Nathan Ortega, Mitchell Foley'_ and after that came a sign at the right hand door with _'Benjamin Snyder, Tyrone Yates'_. The next two doors to his left and right each read _'Jeremy Haynes, Marvin O'Dough'_ and _'Gideon More, Jimmy Bishop'_, and he realized that there were a lot of students. And there were still doors left, weren't that more children than he had seen downstairs?

Then there was one door to his left with three names on it: _'Julian Fitzgerald, Brian McKinney, Jacob Graham'_.

And finally he came to the last door to his left, and for a moment he needed to take a deep breath when he read _'Elliot Novak, Jamie Novak'_. For a moment he stood there, rooted to the spot before he gritted his teeth cast a short glance at the sign _'Professor Hereweald Hrothgar, Chemistry Professor'_ that was attached to the door at the very end of the corridor, and then he slowly pushed the ajar door to – what he hoped would be his room – open.

There were two beds in the large room, two nightstands, two cupboards and two desks with a chair each. There were shelves above the desks and all the colours were held in different soft brown. Slowly he approached the bed by the open window and he imagined the slight wind coming through, and the sun shining onto the bed. Often enough had he slept in a room without a window, because the cellar had not held one.

He'd been sleeping in his room sometimes during the year and he'd always been sleeping in his room during the holidays for several years, whenever Elliot had come home, and only this year, while he'd been in the cellar with Elliot together, had he learned for sure that his brother had been put into the cellar while he had been allowed in his room during all holidays without being locked away once upon doing a mistake like he would be normally. But after the holidays he'd always been put back to the cellar sooner or later and for days … only this year, well – this year he hadn't been to his room at all, and nor had Elliot been.

Throwing himself at the bed he allowed himself to cry for the first time since the past few days, allowed himself to give in to the emotional pain that seemed to rip through him, that seemed to rip him to pieces even though he knew very well that crying wouldn't help, that crying would only get him into trouble, that his father had taught him how bad crying was.

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**Viewpoint of Hereweald**

Hereweald Hrothgar had been sitting in his study for nearly an hour now, filling papers and going over lesson plans for the upcoming week while at the same time keeping an eye on the students.

Jacob and the other two fifth grade students had shortly after his welcome speech come to say 'good night' and had then left for bed. He had noticed the Novak brat going upstairs and the boy had not come back down yet, most likely having gone to bed without saying 'good night' even. Not that he wished getting a 'good night' from that particular brat, no – he was glad if he didn't have to face him, but it was only one more proof about how spoiled the little snot was. Well, if the brat thought that he would go upstairs and tuck him in later, then he was clearly thinking wrong, because he wouldn't!

He would have a look on the brat, like he did on the others on his way to his own private room, making sure that they were not whispering but sleeping, but he would not tuck him in. He didn't even like the fact that the brat was in a room adjacent to his own, but Elliot had always been in the room beside him and he was sure that the boy would like to remain in his room while at the same time Garcia had made sure that he was not to separate the two brothers – even though he was sure that Elliot wouldn't be too happy about being in the same room with his brother either. But well, Garcia was the headmaster and so he would – for now – do as he had demanded. He would deal with the housing of the two brothers at a later time and on his own.

However, and later on his four seventh grade students had left – after they had stuck their heads through his open office door to wish a good night – and all the time he had worried about Elliot.

Elliot had not come together with his brother and he was sure that the boy was forced to travel here with public transportation while his younger brother had been brought with the family limousine and by their chauffeur even.

For a moment he frowned, deep down knowing that there was more to it, knowing that there were a few things that didn't fit into the picture he had built up in his mind, knowing that the boy didn't look spoilt, that he didn't look like a prince, that he – quickly he shoved his thoughts aside and took the telephone receiver, dialling the number of Elliot's home.

He waited for some time, but there was no one who answered the call and with a scowl he dialled the number of the nearby travel agency.

"Hrothgar from Hathaway." He said when a young woman answered his call. "One of my students is missing. The boy is most likely travelling by public transportation from Davenport, Iowa to Whitechapel Mount, Indiana."

"One moment please, Mr. Hrothgar." The woman at the other end of the circuit answered, not too friendly, but considering that it was late night already and the woman was still at the office – he guessed that it was no wonder that she was grumpy meanwhile. Most likely she had been on her way out off the office already, after working overtime, when he had called.

"Night, Professor." Benjamin Snyder and Tyrone Yates both said, sticking their heads through the door and he nodded at them, knowing that they wouldn't go to sleep as they still had an hour left until they needed to be in bed, but most likely they wanted to relax, to unpack, or to read in bed, both boys being happy with being back here at a place where they got attention and had someone who looked after them, who helped them with their all-day troubles – or someone who just was there to talk to.

"Mr. Hrothgar?" The woman on the telephone said and he focused back on the conversation.

"Yes?" He huffed. Of course he was here, he hadn't put the receiver down or she would have heard the busy signal.

"I fear that your student is stuck somewhere in Bloomington, Illinois." The woman said and he nearly groaned. "He will need to wait until tomorrow morning before the next bus starts to leave the state.

"Thank you, Madam." He growled and put down the receiver without even waiting for another explanation from the woman. He got off the armchair behind his desk and began to pace his office, his anger flaring anew. How could those bloody parents be so damn idiotic as to have a child travel through three states on his own? Admittedly, the boy was nearly fifteen years old, but fifteen was no age to …

They could have just as easily brought both boys together, seeing that they'd had to drive – or send a limousine – anyway. This way, they just showed how much they hated their eldest son and he didn't dare imagine the state the boy would be in when he arrived at school sometime tomorrow afternoon.

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* * *

**To be continued**

**Next time in ****… and sit a while with me …**

_Peter, James and John – and their human viewpoint on things_

**Added author's note**

thank you for reading - and yes, I would appreciate it if you took the time to review this chapter too, thank you …


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